



























' ^ 0*^^ c°^ ^ ' 

s'’ .-7<?^ -f O C- * ^'\v ^ 

f\^ ° 


r ^ 9^ S 




^ \ c 

\> ,. '' * 0 /• > 

T- <5 5» ■* . « L 

' A, ^ '>* a‘'» 

{5; ® 

' ^ o A 



N. - « ® \ V 


.V ^ 

* ■x'' '% '• 

% " ' • • ' . ^ • > « 'V '"•'■*,/ 0 N c , V" '’^' V'" 



« .Oq. * 

•>« ^ ✓> 

xP 






% ' '• p ^ 

>1 - ,0 

ATT 17/ M 


<>• .ff’riiJtofTm ft *;>' 









'i' 



\y tP 
O 


: ^ o' : 

' “ 0 N « ■’ \^ ^ ft * 8 I \ * 

V ^ ^ r. . r. 

Sk * - A \\' /\ ‘A< c. 

Ki. (,A _.. . 

'3^. '"■■'■* <'i 0 ~ , -A V , , , 

A"’ ^ 'J' ^ 

1 ^ >- 
Q 



7 °. r '^' 




^ •> 






1 » 

‘bo' -. 



\0 o. 



^ A ' ' #//////^ 'f‘ ' 


c “ *' ‘ < 





1 







'Pme Libkaby ok ('koice Fiction. Issued ]Monthly. By subscription, $6.00 per aunmu. 
No. 27. August, 1891. Entered at Chicago Post office as second-class matter. 









r ^laii®^^sf^^l^!5^' ■ ■;-: 


\'^*'^'^ij»f»" .«^' ,'■ •* * ■*^-f 


■ -\ 


I c 


r _* 


f 


- > i^ . . 


s\ 




« > •' 
r ^ 




-’■'.' :■%' 






% ^ 


f - 


f # 


vr' t: *' 

►:i) " 


. f 



■ • '. 'w 


« 

N 


I • 

i 


ff 


^*y 1- '• ' • ^-'^ 

.*> - 




M 


• ■- •' < ■■ . 

a# « . • k v ' 

▼- •*' ■ 

*C^T> . J’ » 


•. r V 



,• f 


” ' 1-**^ ' ' ^ * • • • 4^ • 'JHBt • • ■’C^ 

■K' .^'-X '' -.y ^ ■. '' ' . ;' 

- ‘j^L ■ . >*. “ • • V ■ • * '• * 

.-■■ :>■ • . . «t •*. 

ill *", :'^z. ISM^.t -•* ^ .*^ ; 




. V, , 

i 


V * 4 


i 

«<>• 




k s 


* — i ^ 


V 


r. 




.•/ 


-'••Tv ■ 

ST -ttV' A'* *,■ va i 


^ *♦, , V*- * J * ♦ 

vy; 

:■', ^ :. A, 

.;■ W' \ 

: '* T Y'^ 






* » ' ^ ,i ^ ; * 

. ••■ /- -.. ^v^-;, i, 
<- ‘r^-^ :^L> 


^ ‘ =} ?. V ■ 

m • Vo.-.. '■ '■ V* ' A! 

'• f. '-: ;‘ • • • 



* i' ■ f. '-: ^ - 

• V . tr-V,;. ,;.7, --^ . 

‘ ..*vy*^ •*:.■'•>■ •. “-, • I o- . 

'>v. V •■' <: ■ .; 




*: « 


A- * . 


♦ '■., 


-'v^ ' *v 


•V'-'f " ■. TS’V 

r/- 

' iV .' .-■ 


' w‘. 


V-, 

• j y. 


' 

V 


\r ,r!v .. 

f-V *.. '^fei.■ • - - -,; -X'' - 

*' ■' ' J 

k. . « A -= — \TJj t, . . • ■ - _^. • 



- 'T*'* 


>•* 


. I 


1 • 




\ V*' ^ ^ 




-vf 




Xk 




S‘ ^ 


' t ^ 


bV J 





f.er. 



A MAN OF HONOR 


“M. DE CAMORS” 









f, ' ■ -> 

sJ. .:H>‘vi:/; : ::^v-^. >^ . : ■ ■ 

st • - • V .• a-'. V» ■%•' -* . 




• -* ^ 




- -.v * w w 1 « » :.*’''*‘V 

• . »• • * ♦ V . I C 


» 


-'^' s 


v' 


V 

"a' <- *' 

-V'" * * 


> ^ 



• • » ^ ^ 

^ .-A 


I ^ 


* ^ . -'* - • 


• • f 




•4 V 




' ■ :'^. 




. . ^ •' '-.u;:-* -O 

V ^ ■ , ' 'Jl 

.- • ^ • ^ 

'i - > V 




:*' •• 


'i.-rA- * 


■ .-^-v.-: ••••;.=- - ■- :.:v:..' ■ .■ ' :V 


» 

^ s 






.Vx‘,. 


- •. 


■^v 


•j^rv 


\ 




•. ■'i 


• . • '.; ■ ' : « • *■■•'• 

■'■ ..•: -, . •- * - A 

•~ • •• . • •-. . . « % . ^-- 


* *• j , • • 







-V .V \ 

i:‘- ' 


« • 


A 

^?W. • - '. ■> 

fc?»j ~ *■ 

!!>*•' -•> . 

rv. * * 

<■ ' :* ^X” \ 

w : 


.' • - • 
j 


r.*' ^ 


: . -^ "J 


■» t 


» 


V ^ 


> • 


. w\ 


' -< ■ X - 

' *if ^ 

. ' " V 


' I 


4 ' 









ViL ■ . 

.\ . T* 

U. . 


“ «■ k‘.!‘ ! 




4% 


,» . -> ;. 


s 

-5 'i 


• V. 

r-** 

B » 






EsXv'iV. ,> 

i "V# J . , » 

• • ' ^ • . 


' V ‘ • 


■fc,... ^'''^ • « 


% V 

4." 




* # f 


^ , 
-f - 


• ■» • 


,4'. V 

^^,-V , 

‘b' • •* •'• . • '* 


> • 


^ 4 

V-.* 


r 

‘ Vv; 


• *. 


i\ 9 


u 

1 


' ■ 

‘i-T^ ••’ 

\* It. •, -Tt 


, »■•- * '•-• -T 




1 W- • ^ 




w« » 


V 


•'? 






'"i ■ 

4! 

■ ♦ 4 ' * 


' I 


f' • » 




•'. • >!; • -yiit ’ ■ '.'" v>'. 

e, . -b: .^> Sk ■•-'• ^ “• ■ 


: 4 


*•. i . : 


-' • - '■' ■ ■ • 

■ ■ '■ 

I . , • j"* m f •* < 

1 '-• 


^ -*- 


>: 




• -B 


.t - < 


’ _r 


I . 


, 


j 

■ V 

* r 


* . 

r 


•A 


w...,;t 


I-*' '. \ >■ -^- * 

. jt ' • *• — - V " , . • 

, ':-fvv^^-:-: ^ ■■■.■■:• 


>} ■ 




\« • 

> 



.■X-v 

V 

V.. 


> r 


71 . 


. • r • 


' > 


» -T ‘v 


*-•-« 






y. 

c 


V 
» . 


* .' 


•■ . I '*^ 5 ; 



. , ■■:^i > ■ '/W '^•>V'1V■'.^. ■ -'.r 

f/iy / N ‘ ^ .-^'*- 





* 


* » 




^ ^ -j 


'-. . . 


’ • y*. 
'•Ar. 




«- ' 

? •• 


^t‘; 





r* •%/ ' 'y\.^7 '*»* ■•! '*■* .* _ ^ • $4 i ~ 

;iis ■■ ■ ■ 

<5- 

• . . ^ i, . Me 3** ' 




?5-*' ■"* 

2iL<L' (f. . .Ttr 

,• ;. , -- t , 

c • ,<7 • B . ^ , 

i: ^ 


• iT 





J 


> . . 


a» — /N ,- 

- » r 




>1 


■■■i. 










X 


. * / 


*-i 


. - .V 






1 • • 


W3V-'' ^ - 

'^‘’•Sy ■ 

-Br^'r ■ r-j- „. 


r- 


iy 


. '^*. . 


* • > 
4f . . 








*4 

* > 


‘ J • ■’f •’ « il”4 ' Z '* • ^ 


• - . - -J- •" \v-r •' ' 

•* --'• -i., 'r • 


" .’n' 


Tu^ t" •■> -■ .-X'"'.* 




THE LIBRARY OF CHOICE FICTION 


A Man of Honor 


FROM THE FRENCH OF 

OCTAVK KEUICIvET 

II 

Author of “A PariBian Romance,” “The Romance of a 
Poor Young Man,” Etc. 

WITH 


A Portrait of the Author and Eleven 
Original Etchings. 


lUuntTatioyiS. ^rom 


^Otj 


J 







CHICAGO 

Laird & Lee, Publishers 
1891 



COPYRIGHT 
LAIRi:) «& LEE 
1891 


All rights reserved. 


translator’s preface 

PRELUDE 


PAOB 

11 

15 

CHAPTER L 

“ THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH !” 17 

CHAPTER II. 

FORCED FRUIT FROM THE PARIS HOT-BED 80 

CHAPTER III. 

THE REMNANTS FROM THE REVOLUTION 55 

CHAPTER IV. 

A CHANGE OF SCENE, WITH A NEW ACTRESS IN A NOVEL 

ROLE 70 

CHAPTER V. 

THE COUNT LOSES A LADY AND FINDS HIS MISSION 94 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE OLD DOMAIN OF REUILLY 113 

CHAPTER VII. 

ELI8E DE TECL'E- 128 

CHAPTER VHI. 

FRENCH COUNTRY LIFE, AND A DISH OF POLITICS 139 


10 


CONTRN1 


CHAPTER IX. 

LOVE CONQUERS PIIILOSOPIIY 159 

CHAPTER X. 

A STRANGE COMPACT — THE PROLOGUE OF THE TRAGEDY 187 
INTERLUDE 208 

CHAPTER XI. 

THE NEW MAN OF THE NEW EMPIRE 209 

CHAPTER XII. 

CIRCE 222 

CHAPTER XIII. 

THE FUIST ACT OF THE TRAGEDY 245 

CHAPTER XIV. 

THE COUNTESS DE CAMORS 268 

CHAPTER XV. 

THE REPTILE STRIVES TO CLIMB 280 

CHAPTER XVI. 

THE lightning’s FLASH IN THE CLEAR SKY 299 

CHAPTER XVII. 

THE GLEAM OF LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS OF DESPAIR. 310 

CHAPTER XVHI. 

THE REPTILE TURNS TO STING 329 

CHAPTER XIX. 

THE SECOND ACT OF THE TRAGEDY — DISCOVERY — ^DEATH 343 

t 

CHAPTER XX. 

THE FEATHER IN THE BALANCE 354 

CHAPTER XXL 

TUE CURTAIN FALLS 374 


TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE. 


One of the most able as well as the 
most popular writer in France at the 
present day, is Octave Feuillet — whose 
romance, The Count he Camors,” has 
created an immense sensation in Europe. 
Incomparably his most interesting work, 
we now introduce it to the American 
public — in which a j)erfect panorama of 
Parisian life is given, with all its bright 
lights and sombre shadows. 

^^The Count de Camors” is to French 
life what Pelham” was to English: nor 
does it fall below that famous novel in 
i ‘lineation of character and interesting 

( 11 ) 


12 


TRA NSLA TOR 'S PREFA CE. 


incidents, with superaddition of a vivid 
narration and the highest tragic power. 

Besides all this, it points a moral — 
which Pelham” does not; it teaches a 
lesson as useful in Americj^^ as in France 
— viz., 'that the best gifts of nature and 
fortune may prove only snares to the pos- 
sessors, when unaccompanied by staunch 
morality, and a sense that the highest 
worldly success will not command happi- 
ness, and that Honor without religious 
faith is but a broken reed to lean upon. 

Young, handsome, rarely gifted, rich, 
successful, The Count de Camors ” is the 
typical Frenchman of the Second Empire. 
All who wish to see the inner life of Paris 
as it was in its higher spheres, and the 
social rottenness concealed under that 
glittering pageant — French society, during 
the Second Empire — should read this book . 

It is easy to see that Octave Feuillet 
is no friend to Imperialism or its fruits, in 


TRA NBLA TOR 'S PREFA CE. 


13 


its hot-bed, Paris. The contrasts he has 
drawn between the feverish existence of 
the city and the cairn, pure, virtuous life 
of the country, establish this. Passing 
from one to the other, seems like the 
transit from Pandemonium to Paradise. 

His depraved characters are all from the 
city ; his noble ones, country born and 
bred. 

In the whole range of fiction no nobler 
male character was ever painted than that 
of Gen. CampvaUon — a French Col. Neio- 
come; no more perfect woman than Elise 
de Tecle — yet with a woman’s weakness as 
well as a saint’s purity. 

All the remaining characters of this 
powerful and moving story are drawn 
with equal truth and power, and its mo-, 
rality is unexceptionable, as is the dictum 
of the first of French critics — Emile Mon- 
TAGUT — speaking with the high sanction 
of the Revue des Deux Mondes, in which 


TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. 


14 

he has published an elaborate analysis of 
this work, The Count de Gamors, 

‘^The subject is really as moral as dan- 
gerous,” says this eminent critic. ^^And 
in fact in this moral interest is it that we 
find the novelty of this romance.” 

sjc ^ •i' ^ 

Here all the energy is moral ; and the 
voice which we hear is human — one that 
utters with tranquil intrepidity the most 
dangerous things.” ... . Quitting his 
doves. Octave Feuillet seeks diversion 
among the lions and tigers of the human 
soul, and comes off an easy conqueror from 
the redoubtable sport, without tension of 
the nerves or wrenching of the muscles — 
and without any loud barbaric hurras ! ” 


A MAN OF HONOR 

«M. DK C AMORS” 


PRELUDE. 

Confidential communications, particularly wor- 
thy of belief, have guided us in the course of this 
Romance. 

That part of the public which attaches a passion- 
ate interest to the dramatic mysteries of a brilliant 
Parisian life, can road these pages with full faith. 
In them they will find the true history of the char- 
acter and fate of a man, who, it seems to us, was 
a true type of his time and of his country — the 
Count Louis Lange d’ Ardennes de Camors. 

To assert that a profligate is born a profligate, 
or that a light woman is a natural courtesan, are 
but sad and idle words we hear every day and 
read everywhere. 

This banality has the objection that it overturns 
whatever ideas of morality are yet believed in by 
the masses. Were a man responsible for his acts 
to a court of i ustice only, this might be very well 

(15) 


16 


PRELUDE. 


but, as long as humanity docs not repose absolute 
confidence in this theory — to the full as exalted as 
it is salutary — we must try to persuade, not only 
others, but ourselves, that there is nothing baneful 
whatsoever in the matter of birth. 

This view is at least encouraging to those pa- 
rents who take great pains to train up their chil- 
dren, and to those good souls who devote them- 
selves to popular education. 

For our own part, we believe that the hero of 
this book was born either an honest man, or a 
scamp, or something between the two — according 
to the direction which his natural preceptors had 
given his inclinations and faculties — influenced by 
the moral medium through which he received 
them; and, finally, by the u?e which he himself 
made of his own free will and intelligence. 


VAMOUa, 


17 


CHAPTER L 

“the wages of sin is death.’' 

Near 11 o’clock, one evening in the month of 
May, a man about fifty years of age, well formed, 
and of noble carriage, stepped from a coupe in the 
courtyard of a small hotel in the rue Barhet-de- 
Jouy. He ascended the steps leading to the en- 
trance with the walk of a master, to the hall where 
several servants awaited him. One of them fol- 
lowed him into an elegant study on the first floor, 
which communicated with a handsome bedroom, 
separated from it by a curtained arcade. The 
valet arranged the fire, raised the lamps in both 
rooms, and was about to retire, when his master 
spoke : 

“ Has my son returiTed home ?” 

No, Monsieur le Comte . Monsieur is not 

ill ?” 

“111! Why?” 

“ Because Monsieur le Comte is so pale.” 

“ Ah ! ’Tis only a slight cold I have taken this 
evening on the banks of the lake.” 

“ Will Monsieur require anything ?” 

“Nothing,” replied the Count briefly, and th® 


18 


CAMORS. 


servant retired. Left alone, his master approached 
a cabinet curiously carved in the Italian style, and 
took from it a long flat ebony box. 

This contains two pistols. He loads them with 
great care, adjusting the caps by pressing them 
lightly to the nipple with his thumb. That done, 
he lights a cigar, and for half an hour the muflied 
beat of his regular tread sounds on the carpet of the 
gallery. His cigar is finished; he stops his walk, 
pauses a moment in deep thought, and then enters 
the adjoining room, taking the pistols with him. 

This room, like the other, is furnished in a style 
of severe elegance, relieved by tasteful ornament. 
There are some pictures of famous masters, statues, 
bronzes, and rare carvings in ivory. The Count 
throws a glance of singular interest round the inte- 
rior of this chamber, which is his own — on the 
familiar objects — on the sombre hangings — on the 
bed prepared for sleep. Then he turns toward a 
table, placed in a recess of the window, lays the 
pistols upon it, and dropping his head in his hands, 
meditates deeply many minutes. Suddenly he 
raises his head, and writes rapidly as follows : 

“ To MY Son : 

“ Life wearies me, my son, and I shall relinquish 
it. The true superiority of man over the inert or 
passive creatures that surround him, is in his power 


CAMORS. 


19 


to free himself, at will, from those pernicious servi- 
tudes which are termed the laws of nature. Man, 
if he will it, need not grow old : the lion must. 
Reflect, my son, upon this text, for all human power 
lies in it. 

“ Science asserts and demonstrates it. Man, intel- 
ligent and free, is an animal wholly unpremedi- 
tated upon this planet. Produced by unexpected 
combinations and haphazard transformations, in 
the midst of a general subordination of matter, he 
figures as a dissonance and a revolt ! 

“ N ature has engendered without having conceived 
him. It was, as it were, that a turkey-hen had un- 
consciously hatched the egg of an eagle. Terrified 
at the monster, she, has sought to control it, and has 
overloaded it with instincts, commonly called du- 
ties, and police regulations known as religion. Each 
one of these shackles broken, each one of these ser- 
vitudes overthrown, marks a step toward the tho- 
rough emancipation of humanity. 

“ I must say to you, however, I die in the faith 
of my century, believing in matter uncreated, all- 
powerful, and eternal — the Nature of the ancients. 
There have been in all ages philosophers who have 
had conceptions of the truth. But ripe to-day, it 
has become the common property of all who are 
strong enough to stand it — for, in sooth, this latest 
religion of humanity is fit food only for the strong. 


20 


CAMOitS. 


Jt carries sadness with it, for it isolates man; but 
it also involves grandeur, making man absolutely 
free, or, as it were, a very God. It leaves him no 
actual duties except to himself, and it opens a su- 
perb field to one of brain and courage. 

“The masses still remain, and must ever remain, 
more or less submissive under the yoke of old deaa 
religions, and under the tyranny of instincts. There 
will still be seen very much the same condition of 
things as at present in Paris ; a society the brain 
of which is atheistic, and the heart religious. And 
at bottom there will be no more belief in Christ than 
in Jupiter; nevertheless, churches will continue to 
be built mechanically. There are no longer even 
Deists ; for the old chimera of a personal, moral 
God, — witness, sanction, and judge, — is virtually ex- 
tinct; and yet scarcely a word is said, or a line 
written, or a jesture made, in public or private life, 
which does not ever affirm that chimera. This 
may have its uses perchance, but it is nevertheless 
despicable. Slip forth from the common herd, my 
son, think for yourself, and write your own cate- 
chism upon a virgin page. 

“As for myself, my life has been a failure, because 
I was born some years too soon. As yet the 
earth and the heavens were heaped up and cum- 
bered with ruins, and people did not see. Science, 
moreover, was relatively still in its infancy. And 


vAMons. 


21 


besides, I retained tlie prejudices and repugnance 
for the doctrines of the new world belonging natu- 
rally to my name. I was unable to comprehend 
tliat there was anything better to be done than 
childishly to pout at the conqueror ; that is, I could 
not recognize that his weapons were good, and 
tliat I should seize and destroy him with them. In 
sliort, for want of a definite principle of action I 
have drifted at random, my life without plan — I 
have been a mere trivial man of pleasure. 

“Your life shall be more complete, if you will 
only follow my advice. 

“ What, indeed, may not a man of this age be- 
come if he have the good sense and energy to con- 
form his life rigidly to his belief! 

“ I merely state the question, you must solve it ; I 
can only leave you some cursory ideas, which I am 
satisfied are just, and upon which you may medi- 
tate at your leisure. Only for fools or the weak does 
materialism become a debasing dogma ; assuredly 
in its code there are none of those precepts of ordi- 
nary morals which our fathers entitled virtue ; but I 
do find there a grand word which may well counter- 
balance many others, that is to say — honor — self- 
esteem ! Unquestionably a materialist may not be 
a saint ; but he can be a gentleman, which is some- 
thing. You have happy gifts, my son, and I know 
of but one duty that you have in the world — that 


22 


CAMORS. 


of developing those gifts to the utmost, and 
through them to enjoy life unsparingly. There- 
fore, without scruple, use woman for your pleas- 
ure — ^man for your advancement ; but under no cir- 
cumstances do anything ignoble. 

“In order that ennui shall not drive you, like 
myself, prematurely from the world so soon as the 
season for pleasure shall have ended, you should 
leave the emotions of ambition and of public life 
for the gratification of your riper age. Do not 
enter into any engagements with the reigning 
government, 'and reserve for yourself to hear its 
eulogium made by those who will have subverted 
it. That is the French fashion. Each generation 
must have its own prey. You will soon feel the 
impulse of the coming generation. Prepare your- 
self, from afar, to take the lead in it. 

“In politics, my son, you are not ignorant 
that we all take our principles from our tempera- 
ment. The bilious are demagogues, the sanguine 
democrats, the nervous aristocrats. You are both 
sanguine and nervous, an excellent constitution, 
for it gives you a choice. You may, for example, 
ne an aristocrat in regard to yourself personally, 
and, at the same time, a democrat in relation to 
others ; and in that you will not be exceptional. 

“ Make yourself master of every question likely 
to interest your contemporaries, but do not become 


CAMORS. 


23 


absorbed in any yourself. In reality, all principles 
are indifferent — true or false according to the hour 
and circumstance. Ideas are mere instruments 
with whicli you sliould learn to play seasonably, so 
as to sway men. In that path, likewise, you will 
have associates. 

“ Know, my son, that having attained my age, 
weary of all else, you will have need of strong sensa- 
tions. The sanguinary diversions of revolution will 
then be for you the same as a love affair at twenty. 

“ But I am fatigued, my son, and shall recapitu- 
late. To be loved by women, to be feared by men, 
to be as impassive and as imperturbable as a god 
before the tears of the one and the blood of the 
other, and to end in a whirlwind — such has been 
the lot in which I have failed, but which, neverthe- 
less, I bequeath to you. With your great faculties 
you, however, are capable of accomplishing it, un- 
less indeed you should fail through some ingrained 
weakness of the heart that I have noticed in you, 
and which, doubtless, you have imbibed with your 
mother’s milk. 

“ So long as man shall be born of woman, there 
will be something faulty and incomplete in his 
character. In fine, strive to relieve yourself from 
all thraldom, from all natural instincts, affections, 
and sympathies as from so many fetters upon your 
Liberty, your strength. • 


24 


CAMORS. 


“ Do not marry unless some superior interest 
shall impel you to do so. In that event, have no 
children. 

“ Have no intimate friends. 'Caesar having grown 
old, had a friend. It was Brutus ! 

“ Contempt for men is the beginning of wis- 
dom. 

“ Change somewhat your style of fencing, it is 
altogether too open, my son. Do not get angry. 
Rarely laugh, and never weep. Adieu. 

“ Camors.” 

The feeble rays of dawn had passed through the 
slats of the blinds. The matin bird commenced its 
song in the chestnut-tree near the window. Mon- 
sieur de Camors raised his head and listened in an 
absent mood to the sound which astonished him. 
Seeing that it was daybreak, he folded in some 
haste the pages he had just finished, pressed his 
seal upon the envelope, and addressed it, “ For the 
Count Louis de Camors.” Then he rose. 

A gi'eat lover of art. Monsieur de Camors had 
carefully preserved a magnificent ivory carving of 
the sixteenth century, which had belonged to his 
wife. It was a Christ — the pallid white relieved 
by a medallion of dark velvet. 

Ilis eye meeting this pale sad image, was at- 
tracted to it for a moment with strange fascination 


OAMORS. 


25 


Then he smiled bitterly, seized one of the pistols 
with a firm hand and pressed it to his temple. 

A shot resounded through the Iiouse ; the fall of 
a heavy body shook the floor — fragments of brains 
strewed the carpet. The Count de Camors had 
plunged into eternity ! 

His last will was clenched in his hand. 

To whom is this document addressed? Into 
wliat kind of soil will these seeds fall ? 

At this time Louis de Camors was twenty-seven 
years of age. His mother had died young. It did 
not appear that she had been particularly hap2)y 
with her husband ; and her son barely remembered 
her as a young woman, pretty and pale, and fi-e- 
quently weeping, who used to sing him to sleep in a 
low, sweet voice. He had been brought up prin- 
cipally by his father s mistress, who was known as 
la Vicomtesse d’Oilly, a widow, and a pretty good 
sort of woman in the main. Her natural sensibility, 
and the laxity of morals then reigning at Paris, 
permitted her to occupy herself at the same time 
with the happiness of the father and the education 
of the son. When the father deserted her soon 
after,' he left her the child to comfort her somewhat 
by this mark of confidence and afiection. She took 
him out three times a week ; she dressed him and 
combed him ; she fondled him and took him with 
her to church, and made him play with a hand- 


26 


CAMORS. 


some Spaniard, who had for some time been her 
secretary. Besides, she neglected no opportunity 
of inculcating 'some precepts of sound niorality. 
Thus the child, being surprised at seeing her one 
evening press a kiss upon the forehead of her secre- 
tary, cried out with the blunt candor of his age — 

“ Why, Madame, do you kiss a gentleman who 
is not your husband ?” 

“ Because, my dear,” replied the Comtesse, “ our 
^ood Lord commands us to be charitable and affec- 
.ionate to the poor, the infirm, and the exile ; — and 
VI. Perez is an exile.” 

Louis de Camors merited better care, for he was 
a generous-hearted child : and his comrades of the 
college of Louis-le-Grand always remembered the 
warm-heartedness and natural grace which made 
them forgive his successes during the week, and his 
varnished boots and lilac gloves on Sunday. Tow- 
ards the close of his college course, he became par- 
ticularly attached to a poor bookkeeper named 
Lescande, who excelled in mathematics, but who 
was very badly made, awkwardly shy and timid, 
with a painful sensitiveness to the peculiarities of 
his person. He was nicknamed “ Wolf-head,” from 
the refractory nature of his hair ; but the elegant 
Camors stopped the scoffers by protecting the 
young man with his friendship. Lescande felt this 
deeply, and adored his friend, to whom he opened 


CAMORS. 


2 ) 


the inmost recesses of his heart, letting out some 
important secrets. 

He loved — a very young girl who was his cou- 
sin, hut was as poor as himself. Still it was a pro- 
vidential thing for him that she was poor, otherwise 
he would never have dared to aspire to her. It 
was a sad occurrence that had first thrown Les- 
cande with his cousin — the loss of her father, who 
was chief of one of the Departments of State. 

After his death she lived with her mother in 
very straitened circumstances; and Lescande, on 
occasion of his last visit, surprised her with soiled 
cuffs. Immediately after he received the following 
note : « 

“ Pardon me, dear cousin ! Pardon my not wear- 
ing white cuffs. But I must tell thee that we can 
only change our cuffs — rmy mother and I — three 
times a week. For her, one would never discover 
it. /She is neat as a bird. I also try to be ; but, 
alas ! when I practise the piano, my cuffs I’ub. 
After this explanation, my good Theodore, I hope 
thou wilt love me as before. 

“ JULIETTE.” 

Lescande wept over this note. Luckily he had 
his profession as an architect; and Juliette had 
promised to wait for him ten years, by which time 
he would either be dead, or living deliciously in a 


28 


CAMOItS, 


humble house with his cousin. He showed the 
note, and unfolded his plans to Camors. “This is 
the only ambition I have, or which I can have,” 
added Lescande. “Thou art dilferent. Thou art 
born for great things.” 

“ Listen, my old Lescande,” replied Camors, 
who had just passed his rhetoric examination in 
triumph. “ I cannot tell but my destiny may be 
ordinary ; but I am sure my heart can never be. 
There I feel transports — passions, which give me 
sometimes great joy, sometimes inexpressible suf- 
fering. I burn to discover a world — to save a 
nation — to love a queen! I understand nothing 
but great ambitions and noble alliances, and as for 
sentimental love, it troubles me but little. My 
.activity pants for a nobler and a wider field ! 

“I intend to attach myself to one of the great 
social parties, political or religious, that agitate the 
world at this era. Which one I know not yet, for 
my opinions are not very fixed. But as soon as I 
leave college I devote myself to seeking the truth. 
And truth is easily found. I shall read all the 
papers. 

“ Besides, Paris is an intellectual highway, so 
brilliantly lighted it is only necessary to open one’s 
eyes and have good faith and independence, to find 
the true road. And I am in excellent case for this, 
for though born a gentleman, I have no prejudices. 


CAMOES. 


29 


My father, who is himsulf very enlightened an<l 
very liberal, leaves me free. I have an uncle who 
is a Republican ; an aunt, who is a Legitimist — and 
what is more, she is a saint; and another uncle 
who is a Conservative. It is not vanity that leads 
me to speak of these things ; but only a desire to 
show you that having a foot in all parties, I am 
quite willing to compare them dispassionately and 
make a good choice. Once master of the -Holy 
Truth, you may be sure, dear old Lescande, I will 
serve it unto death — with my tongue, with my pen, 
and with my sword !” 

Such sentiments as these, pronounced with sin- 
cere emotion and accompanied by a warm clasp ol 
the hand, drew tears from the old Lascaude, other- 
wise called Wolf Head. 

Is the child the parent of the mar ? 

We shall see. 


30 


CAMOnS. 


CHAPTER II. 

FORCED FRUIT FROM THE HOT-BED OF PARIS. 

Early one morning, some six or eight yeait 
after these high resolves, Louis de Camors rode 
out from the porte-cochh'e of the small hotel he 
occupied with his father. 

Nothing could be gayer than Paris was that 
morning, at that charming golden hour of the day 
when the world seems peopled only with good and 
generous spirits who love one another. Paris does 
nol j)ique herself on her generosity; but she still 
takes to herself at this charming hour an air of 
innocence, cheerfulness, and amiable cordiality. 

The little carts with bells, that pass each other 
rapidly, make one believe the country is covered 
with roses. The cries of old Paris cut with their 
sharp notes the deep murmur of a great city just 
awaking. 

You see the jolly concierges sweeping the white 
foot-paths ; half-dressed merchants taking down 
their shutters with great noise ; and groups of 
ostlers, in Scotch caps, smoking and fraternizing on 
the hotel steps. 

You hear the questions of the sociable neighbor 


CAM0R8. 


?Vi 

hood ; the news proper to awakening ; speculations 
on the weather bandied across from door to door 
with much sympathy. 

Young milliners, a little late, walk briskly tow- 
ards town with elastic step, making now a short 
pause before a shop just opened; again taking 
wing like a bee just scenting a flower. 

Even the very dead in this gay Paris morning 
seem to go gayly to the cemetery, with their jovial 
coachmen grinning and nodding as they pass. 

Entirely a stranger to these agreeable impres- 
sions, Louis de Camors, a little pale, with half- 
closed eyes and a cigar between his teeth, rode 
into the Rue de Bourgogne at a foot-pace, broke 
into a canter on the Champs Elysees, and thence to 
the Bois. After a gallop, he returned by chance 
through the Porte Maillot, then not nearly sd 
thickly inhabited as it is to-day. Already, how- 
ever, a few pretty houses, with green lawns in 
fi'ont, peep out from the bushes of lilac and clem 
atis. Before the green railings of one of these 
a gentleman is playing hoop with a very young, 
blonde-haired child. The age of the gentleman is 
that uncertain one which may range from twenty- 
five to forty. He wears a white cravat, spotless as 
snow; and two isosceles triangles of short, thick 
whisker, cut like the boxwood at Versailles, orna- 
ment his cheeks. If Camors saw this personage 


82 


CAMORS. 


he did not honor him with tlie sliglitest notice. 
He was, notwithstanding, the old Lescande, whc 
had been lost sight of for several years by liia 
warmest college friend. Lescande, however, whose 
memory appeared better, felt his heart leap with 
joy at the majestic appearance of the young cava- 
lier who approached him. He made a movement 
to rush forward : a smile covered his good-natured 
face, but it ended in a grimace. He had evidently 
been forgotten. Camors, not now more than a 
couple of feet from him, was passing on, and his 
beautiful countenance gave not the slightest sign 
of emotion. Suddenly, without changing a single 
line of his face, he drew rein, took his cigar from 
his lips, and said, in a tranquil voice : 

“ Hello ! You have no longer a wolf-head !” 

“ Ha ! Then you know me ?” cried Lescande. 

“ Know you ? why not ?” 

“ I thought — I was afraid — on account of my 
whiskers — ” 

“ Bah ! your whiskers do not change you — except 
they become your style of beauty. But what are 
you doing here ?” 

“ Doing here ! Why, my dear friend, I am at 
home here. Dismount, I pray you, and come into 
my house.” 

“ Well, why not ?” replied Camors, with the same 
voice and manner of supreme indifference; and, 


CAMons. 


33 


throwing his bridle to the servant who followed 
him, he passed through the garden-gate, led, sup- 
ported, caressed by the trembling hand of Les* 
cande. 

The garden was small, but beautifully tended 
and full of rare plants. At the end, a small villa, 
in the Italian style, showed its graceful porch. 

“ Ah, that is pretty !” exclaimed Camors, at 
last. 

“And you recognize my plan. No. 3, do you 
not ?” asked Lescande eagerly. 

“Your No. 3? Ah, yes, perfectly,” replied 
Camors absently. “And your pretty little cousin 
— is she within ?” 

“ She is there, my dear friend,” answered Les- 
cande in a low voice — and he pointed to the closed 
shutters of a large window of a balcony sur- 
mounting the verandali. “ She is there ; and this 
is our son.” 

Camors let his hand pass listlessly over the child’s 
nair. “ The deuce !” he said ; “ but you have not 
wasted time. And you are happy, my brave fel- 
low ?” 

“ So hapj)y, my dear friend, that I am sometimes 
uneasy, for the good God is too good to me. It is 
true, though, I had to work very hard. For in- 
stance, I passed two years in Spain — in the moun- 
tains of that infernal country. There I built a 


34 


CAMORS. 


fairy palace for the Marquis of Buena-Vista, a great 
nobleman, who had seen my plan at the Exhibition 
and was delighted with it. This was the com 
mencement of my fortune ; but you must not im 
agine my profession alone has enriched me so 
quickly. I made some successful speculations — 
some unheard-of chances in lands ; and, I beg you 
to believe, honestly, too. Still, I am not a million- 
aire ; but you know I had. nothing, and my wife 
less ; now, my house paid for, we have ten thou- 
sand francs income left. It is not a fortune for us, 
living in this style ; but I still work and keep good 
courage, and my Juliette is so happy in her para- 
dise !” 

“ She has no more soiled cuffs, then ?” said 
Camors. 

“ I warrant she has not. Indeed she has a slight 
tendency to luxury — like all other women, you 
know. But I am delighted to see you remember 
so well our college follies. I also, through all my 
distractions, never forgot you a moment. I even 
had a foolish idea of asking you to my wedding, 
only I did not dare. You are so brilliant, so pet- 
ted, with your establishment and your racers. My 
wife knows you very well; in fact we have talked 
Of you a hundred thousand times. Since she patron* 
izes the turf and subscribes for ‘ The /Sport , she 
says to me, ‘ It is the horse of your friend that has 


CAMORS. 


S5 

won again’; and in our family circle we rejoice 
over your triumphs.” 

A flush tinged the cheek of Camors as he an- 
swered quietly, “You are really too good.” 

They walked a moment in silence over the gravel 
path bordered by the grass-plat, before Lescande 
spoke again. 

“ And yourself, dear friend, I hope that you also 
are happy.” 

“ I — happy !” Camors seemed a little astonished. 
‘ My happiness is simple enough, but I believe it 
»s unclouded. I rise in the morning, ride to the 
Bois, thence to the Club, go to the Bois again, and 
then back to the Club. If there is a first repre- 
sentation at any theatre, I wish to see it. Thus, 
last evening they gave a new piece which was 
really exquisite. There was a song in it, com- 
mencing, 

“He was a woodpecker, 

A little woodpecker, 

A young woodpecker” — 

and the chorus imitated the cry of the wood- 
oecker! Well, it was charming, and the whole of 
Paris will sing that song with delight for a year. 
I also shall do like the whole of Paris, and I shall 
be happy.” 

“ Good heavens ! my friend,” laughed Lescande, 
“ and that suffices you for happiness ?” 


36 


CAMuHS. 


“ That and — the principles of ’89,” replied Ca* 
mors, lighting a fresh cigar from the old one. 

Here their dialogue was broken by the fresh 
voice of a woman calling from the blinds of the 
balcony — 

“ Is that you, Theodore ?” 

Camors raised his eyes and saw a white hand, 
resting on the slats of the blind, bathed in sunlight. 

“ That is my wife. Conceal yourself,” cried Les- 
cande briskly; and he pushed Camors behind a 
clump of catalpas, as he turned to the balcony 
and lightly answered — 

“Yes, my dear; do you wish anything?” 

“ Maxime is with you ?” 

“ Yes, mother. I am here,” cried the child. “ It 
is a beautiful morning. Are you quite well ?” 

“ I hardly know. I have slept too long I be- 
lieve.” She opened the shutters, and, shading her 
eyes from the glare with her hand, appeared on the 
balcony. 

She was a woman in the flower of youth, slight, 
supple, and graceful, who appeared, in her ample 
morning-dress of blue cashmere, stouter and taller 
than she really was. Bands of the same color in- 
terlaced, in the Greek fashion, her chestnut hair — 
which nature, art, and the night had dishevelled- 
crimped and curled to admiration on her small 
head. 


CAJiona. 


81 


She rested her elbows on the balcony rail, 
yawned, showing her white teeth, and looking at 
her husband, asked : 

“ Why in the world do you look so stupid ?” 

At the instant she observed Camors — whom the 
interest of the moment had withdrawn from his 
concealment — gave a frightened cry, tucked up her 
skirts, and ran into the room. 

Since leaving college up to tliis hour, Louis de 
Camors had never formed any great opinion of tlie 
Juliet who had taken as her Itomeo the Old Les- 
cande. He experienced a flash of agreeable sur 
prise on discovering that his friend was more happy 
in that respect than he supposed. 

“ I am about to be scolded, my friend/’ said Les 
cande, with a hearty laugh, “ and y ou also must 
stay for your share. You will stay and breakfast 
with us ?” 

Camors hesitated; then said hasJly, “No, no! 
Impossible ! I have an engagement at which I am 
expected.” 

Notwithstanding his unwillingness, Lescande de- 
tained him until he extorted a promise to come and 
dine with them — that is, with him, his wife, and 
his mother-in-law, Mde. Mursois — on the following 
Tuesday. This acceptance left a cloud on the spirit 
of Camors until the appointed day. Besides, ab- 
horring family dinners, he objected to being re- 


38 


CAMOliS. 


minded of the scene of the balcony. The indis* 
creet kindness of Lescande both touched and irri- 
tated him ; for he knew he should play but a silly 
part near this pretty woman. He felt she was a co* 
quette, while the souvenirs of his youth and charac- 
ter should make her sacred to him. So he was 
not in the most charming frame of mind when he 
stepped out of his dog-cart, that Tuesday evening, 
before the little villa of the Avenue Maillot. 

At his reception by Madame Lescande and her 
mother, he took heart a little. They appeared to 
him what they were, two honest-hearted women, 
surrounded by luxury and elegance. The mother — 
an ex-beauty — had been left a widow when very 
young, and to this time had avoided a single stain 
on her character. With them, innate delicacy 
held the place of those solid principles so little 
tolerated by the world of France. Like a few 
other women of society, Madame had the quality 
of virtue just as ermine has the quality of white- 
ness. Vice was not so repugnant to her as an 
evil, as it was as a blemish. Her daughter had re- 
ceived from her those instincts of chastity which 
are oftener than we imagine hidden under the ap- 
pearance of pride. But these amiable women had 
one unfortunate caprice, not uncommon at this day 
among Parisians of their position. Although rather 
clever, they bowed down, with the adoration of 


CAM OR S, 


39 


bourgeoises^ before that aristocracy, mure or less 
pure, that paraded up and down the Champs 
Elysees, in the theatres, at the race-course, and on 
the most frequented promenades, its frivolous af- 
fairs and rival vanities. 

Virtuous themselves, they watched with interest 
ihe daintiest bits of scandal and the most equivocal 
adventures that took place among the Hite. It 
was their happiness and their glory to learn the 
smallest details of the high-life of Paris; to follow’ 
its feasts, speak in its slang, copy its toilets, and 
read its favorite books. So that if not the rose, 
they could at least be near the rose 'and become 
impregnated with her colors and her perfumes. 
Such apparent familiarity heightened them singu- 
larly in their own estimation and in that of their 
associates. 

Now, although Camors did not yet occupy that 
bright spot in the heaven of fashion wdiich w’as 
surely to be his one day, still he could here pass 
for a demigod, and as such inspire Mde. Lescande 
-and her mother with a sentiment of most violent 
curiosity. Plis early intimacy with Lescande had 
alw’ays connected a peculiar interest with his name: 
and they knew the names of his horses — most likely 
knew the names of his mistresses. 

So it required all their natural tact to conceal 
from their guest the flutter of the nerves caused 


40 camoM 

by his sacred presence ; but they did succeed, and 
so well that Caraors was slightly piqued. If not 
a coxcomb, he was at least young : he was accus- 
tomed to please : he knew the Princess de Clam 
Grotz had lately applied to him her learned defini- 
tion of an agreeable man — “He is charming, for 
one always feels in danger near him !” 

Consequently, it seemed a little strange to him 
that the simple mother of the simple wife of simple 
Lescande should bear his radiance with such calm- 
ness ; and this brought him out of his premeditated 
reserve. 

He took the trouble to be irresistible — not to 
Mde. Lescande, to whom he was studiously re- 
spectful — but to Mde. Mursois. The whole even- 
ing he scattered around the mother the social 
brilliants that were to dazzle the daughter ; the old 
Lescande meanwhile sitting with his mouth open 
to the windpipe, delighted with the success of his 
old schoolfellow. 

Next afternoon, Camors, returning from his ride 
in the Bois, by chance passed the Avenue Maillot. 
Madame Lescande was embroidering on the bal- 
cony, by chance, and returned his salute over her 
tapestry. He remarked, too, that she saluted very 
gracefully, by a slight inclination of the head, fol- 
lowed by a slight movement of her gracefully 
eloping shoulders. 


CAMORS. 


41 


When he called upon her two or three days 
after — as was only his duty — Camors reflected oi 
a strong resolution he had made to keep very cool, 
and to expatiate to Madame Lescande only on her 
husband’s virtues. This pious resolve had an un- 
fortunate eflect ; for Madame, whose virtue had been 
piqued, had also reflected ; and while an obtrusive 
devotion had not failed to frighten her, this course 
only reassured her. So she gave up without restraint 
to the pleasure of receiving in her boudoir one of 
the brightest stars from the heaven of her dreams. 

It was now May, and at the races of La Marche 
— to take place the following Sunday — Camors was 
to be one of the riders. Mde. Mursois and her 
daughter prevailed upon Lescande to take them, 
while Camors completed their happiness by admit- 
ting them to the weighing stand. Further, when 
they walked past the judges’ stand, Mde. Mursois, 
to whom he gave his arm, had the delight of being 
escorted in public by a cavalier in an orange jacket 
and top boots. Lescande and his wife followed in 
the wake of the radiant mother-in-law, partaking 
of her ecstasy. 

These agreeable relations continued for several 
weeks, without seeming to change their character. 
One day Camors would seat himself by the lady, 
before the palace of the Exhibition, and initiate 
her into the mysteries of all the fashionables who 


42 


CAMORS. 


passed before them. Another time he would dr(»p 
into their loge at the opera, deign to remain there 
during an act or two, and correct their as yet in- 
complete views of the morals of the corps-de-ballet. 
But in all these interviews he held toward Mde. 
Lescande the language and manner of a brother : 
perhaps because he secretly persisted in his delicate 
resolve ; perhaps because he was not ignorant that 
every road leads to Rome — and one as surely as 
another. 

Madame Lescande reassured herself more and 
more; and feeling it unnecessary to be on her 
guard, as at first, thought she might permit herself 
a little levity. No woman is flattered at being 
loved only as a sister. 

Camors, a little disquieted by the course things 
were taking, made some slight effort to divert it. 
But men in fencing wish to spare their adversary^ 
and finding habit too strong for them, lunge home 
in spite of themselves. Besides, he began to be 
really interested in Mde. Lescande — in her kitten- 
ish ways, at once artful and simple, provoking and 
timid, suggestive and reticent — in short, charming. 

The same evening that M. de Camors, the elder, 
returned to his home bent on suicide, his son, pass- 
ing up the Avenue Maillot, was stopped by Les- 
cande on the threshold of his villa. 

“ My friend,” said the l^tt^r, “ ^s you are here 


CAMORa. 


43 


you can do me a great favor. A telegram calls me 
suddenly to Melun — I must go on the instant. The 
ladies are all so sad, pray stay and dine with them ! 
1 can’t tell what the deuce ails my wife. She has 
all day been weeping over her tapestry: my 
mother-in-law has a headache. Your presence will 
cheer them. So stay, I beg you.” 

Camors refused, hesitated, made objections, and 
consented. He sent back his horse, and his friend 
presented him to the ladies, whom the presence of 
the unexpected guest seem to cheer a little. Les- 
cande stepped into his carriage, and departed after 
receiving from his wife an embrace more fervent 
than usual. 

The dinner was gay. 

In the atmosphere was that subtile essence oi 
coming danger of which both Camors and Mde. 
Lescande felt the exhilarating influence. Their 
excitation, as yet innocent, employed itself in those 
lively sallies — those brilliant combats at the bar- 
riers — that ever precede the more serious conflict. 
About nine o’clock the headache of Mde. Mursois 
— perhaps owing to the cigar they had allowed 
Camors — became more violent. She declared she 
could endure it no longer, and must retire to her 
chamber. Camors wished to withdraw, but his 
carriage had not yet arrived and Madame Mursois 
insisted he should wait for it. 


<4 


CAMORS. 


“Let my daughter amuse you by playing the 
piano until then,” she added. 

Left alone with her guest, the younger lady 
seemed embarrassed. “ What shall I play for 
you ?” she asked in a constrained voice, taking her 
seat at the piano. 

“ Oh ! anything — play me a waltz,” answered 
Camors absently. 

The waltz finished, an awkward silence ensued. 
To break it she arose hesitatingly ; then clasping 
her hands together exclaimed, “It seems to me 
there is a storm. Do you not think so ?” She ap- 
proached the window, oj)ened it, and stepped out 
on the balcony. In a second Camors was by her side. 

The night was beautifully clear. Before them 
stretched the sombre shadow of the wood, while 
nearer trembling rays of moonlight slept upon the 
lawn. 

How still all was ! 

Their trembling hands met and .for a moment 
did not separate. 

“ J uliette !” whispered the young man, in a low, 
broken voice. She shuddered, repulsed the arm 
that Camors passed round her, and hastily re- 
entered the room. 

“ Leave me, I pray you !” she cried, with an im- 
petuous gesture of her hand, as she sank upon the 
sofa, and buried her face in her hands. 

















1 * » V 



vW' 


} w 

•» w 


i» 

I 



• T t 

I » ■ u ^ 
' “'I 

•V * 

« 


. . t 




W - # 








i-y. ' r* 


* . 




« ^ • 


^ w* V 


< .. ^ 


- ^ y.T .f ,^' 

. r ., " i 








I,- »' 15*13' • k 


T I 

’ 


rC\^^ . ' 




^ * t - ^ V ► tf** ^ r*" 1 *K Cm^ T, * '■ ’ i A * 

Jw-^'';.- ■••. r' *-f % ':.< ■'•■ rV.’ , 




•' «l i 





1 

‘ C ' 

,« 

"•■v 

*i ' A “ 

i 

• ► 

' 

r • *^ 

/ * • 

^■C 

^ ■ * 



-,; •> ^ 

1 

f ;< ' ' 


♦ ^ i. 


. r* 


?3 




'•Tk -; ’ J 


‘f 

l\% 


if ; 

L.?! 


V 


’■ <k . t 

> . • .f^v 


• - • 1. — 


t 












- f 

.i- 






I . i 


V 

? - ♦ - k**t 

• 1^- 


<1-Xty 


‘^T t;t 





^t^^ 


♦ - ‘T^ 


*4., 


s 


,» '***' -J 
'• * <v 

• . -M • ■> 


V 


• 


^ |■■■'■^ ,■ r.- j' 


• - •■>'\ ,'r< ■’/'f -v' - 

' > ' V-^ * ** . ^ < • . , ^ 

'■••^ >v . 

& 




V. ''■■■.-,<■- •'.' •- t."'. 


>J V 

• < ■ * 


•VrV- ,' ;^-.v^’'i. r: - -VV^ 

j^.;f^i ^ < • - / ‘ ^ -r,^. ' ^ ^ ^ 

i^C *\ ^ ^ *\ y ^'- • i -i* • - ^ -. '^ 

r*r ^ ■». > ^ "■* ’ ‘ ' '*•'* v^ mk’ * , *- 

* -V '• ■'>1 '' ^ *\^ t % « *. m * i ^' •* ^ ^^iMtr ii* • ■** 

■ . VV-V, ■‘- 0 :■ ■* - ..*VJIR -u'^A 





^ ♦ 


* (T » 


t 

■; 


s • • Uk Pa 


■ ^ , • u* r 






iCt 


A'!V' 

A *. A -, *, .1 1 A *1^-' 


an . s 



CAMORS. 


45 


Of course ('amors did not obey. He seated him 
self by her. 

The fall of a virtuous woman is often so terribly 
rapid as to stun us utterly. 

In a little while the young Juliette awoke from 
her trance ; but she awoke a lost woman ! 

How bitter was that awakening ! She measured 
at a first glance the depth of the awful abyss into 
which she had suddenly plunged. Her husband, 
her mother, her infant whirled round liked spectres 
in the mad whirlpool of her brain. 

Sensible of the anguish of an irreparable wrong, 
she rose, passed her hand vacantly across her brow, 
and muttering, “ Oh, God ! oh, God !” peered vain- 
y into the dark for light — hope — refuge ! There 
was none ! 

Her poor soul cast itself utterly on that of her 
lover. She turned her swimming eyes on him and 
said; 

“ How you must despise me !” 

Camors, half kneeling on the carpet near her, 
kissed her hand indifferently and half raised his 
shoulders in sign of denial. “ Is it not so ?” she 
repeated. “ Answer me, Louis.” 

His face wore a strange, cruel smile — “ Do not 
insist on an answer, I pray you,” he said. 

“ Then I am right ? You do despise me !” 

Camors turned himself abruptly full toward her 


46 


CAMOBS. 


t 

looked straight in her face, and said, in a cold, 
hard voice, “ I do !” 

To this frightful speech, the poor child replied 
by a wild «ry that seemed to rend her, while her 
eyes dilated as if under the influence of strong 
poison. Camors strode across the room, then re- 
turned and stood by her as he said in a quick, 
violent tone : 

“ You think I am brutal ? Perhaps 1 am, but 
that can matter little now. After the irreparable 
wrong I have done you, there is one service — and 
only one — which I can now render you. I do it 
now', and tell you the truth. Understand me 
clearly ; women who fall do not judge themselves 
more harshly than their accomplices judge them. 
For myself, what would you have me think of you ? 

“ To his misfortune and my shame, I have known 
your husband since his boyhood. There is not a 
drop of blood in his veins that does not throb for 
you: there is not a thought of his day nor a 
dream of his night that is not yours : your every 
comfort comes from his sacrifices — your every joy 
from his exertion ! See what he is to you ! 

“You have only seen my name in the papers; 
you have seen me ride by your window ; I have 
talked a few times with you, and you yield to me 
in one moment the whole of his life with your own 
■ — the whole of his happiness with your own. 


CAMOES. 


47 


“ I tell you, woman, every libertine like me, who 
abuses your vanity and your weakness and after- 
ward tells you he esteems you — lies! And if after 
all you still believe he loves you, you do yourself 
fresh injury. No : we soon learn to hate those irk- 
some ties that become duties where we only sought 
pleasures ; and the first effort after they are formed 
is to shatter them. 

“ As for the rest : women like you are not made 
for unholy love like ours. Their charm is their 
purity, and losing that, they lose everything. To 
our drunken delirium virtuous women are awk- 
ward ; their transports are childish, their very con- 
fession ridiculous ! But it is a blessing to them 4o 
encounter one wretch, like myself, who dares to 
say — Forget me, forever ! Farewell !” 

He left her, passed from the room yith rai)id 
strides, and, slamming the door behind him, dis- 
appeared. Madame Lescande, who had listened, 
motionless and pale as marble, remained in the same 
lifeless attitude, her eyes fixed, her hands clenched 
— yearning from the depths of her heart that death 
would summon her. Suddenly a singular noise, 
seeming to come from the next room, struck hei 
ear. It was only a convulsive sob, or violent and 
smothered laughter. The wildest and most ter- 
rible ideas crowded to the mind of the unhappy 
woinan j the foremost of them, that her husband 


48 


CAMOES. 


had secretly returned, that he knew all — that his 
brain had given way, and the laughter was the 
jibbering of his madness. 

Feeling her own brain begin to reel, she sprang 
from the sofa, and rushing to the door, threw it 
open. The next apartment was the dining-room, 
dimly lighted by a hanging lamp. There she saw 
Camors, crouched prone upon the floor, sobbing 
furiously and beating his forehead against a chair 
which he strained in a convulsive embrace. Her 
tongue refused its office ; she could find no word, 
but seating herself near him, felt the beating of his 
heart and wept silently. He dragged himself 
nearer, seized the hem of her dress and covered it 
with kisses; his breast heaved tumultuously, his 
lips trembled and he gasped the almost inarticu- 
late words, “ Pardon ! Oh, pardon me !” 

This was all. Then he rose suddenly, rushed from 
the house, and the instant after she heard the rolling 
of the wheels as his carriage whirled him away. 

If there were no morals and no remorse, French 
people of both sexes would perhaps be happier. 
But unfortunately it happens that a young woman, 
who believes in little, like Mde. Lescande, and a 
young man who believes in nothing, like Mons. de 
Camors, cannot have the pleasures of an indepen- 
dent code of morals without suffering cruelly after- 
ward. 


CAMonS, 


49 


A thousand old prejnrlicps, wliich they think 
long since buried, start up suddenly in their con- 
science; and these revived dead ones are nearly 
fatal to them. 

Camors rushed toward Paris at the greatest 
speed of his fast trotter Fitz-Aymon (by Black 
Prince out of Anna Bell), awakening along the 
route, by his elegance and style, sentiments of envy 
wliich would have changed to pity, could the 
wounds of the heart be visible. Bitter weariness, 
disgust of life and disgust for himself, were no new 
sensations to this young man ; but he had never 
experienced them in such poignant intensity as at 
this cursed hour, when flying from the dishonored 
hearth of the friend of his boyhood. No action of 
his life had ever thrown such a flood of light on the 
depths of his infamy in doing such gross outrage 
to the friend of his purer days, to the dear confi- 
dant of the generous thoughts and proud aspira- 
tions of his youth. He knew he had trampled 
all these under foot. Like Macbeth, he had not 
only murdered one asleep, but had murdered sleep 
itself. 

Ills reflections became insupportable. He thought 
successively of becoming monk, of enlisting as a 
soldier and of getting drunk — ere he reached the 
corner of the rue Royale and the Boulevard, 
enhance favored his last design, for as he alighted 


50 


CAMORS. 


in front of his club, he found himself face to face 
with a pale young man, who smiled as he extended 
his hand. Camors recognized the Prince d’ErroL 

“ The deuce ! You here, my prince ! I thought 
you in Cairo.” 

“ I only arrived this morning.” 

“ Ah, then you are better ? — Your chest ?” 

“ So, so.” 

“ Bah, you look perfectly well. And isn’t Cairo 
a strange place ?” 

“ Rather ; but I really believe it is Providence 
has sent you to me.” 

“ You really think so, my Prince ? But why ? 

“ Because — Pshaw ! I’ll tell you by-and-by ; 
but first I want to hear all about your quarrel.” 

“ What quarrel ?” 

“ Your duel for Sarah.” 

“ That is to say, against Sarah !” 

“Well, tell me all that passed; I only heard of 
it vaguely while abroad.” 

“ Well, I only strove to do a good action, and 
according to custom, I was punished for it. I 
heard it said that little imbecile La Bride borrowed 
money from his little sister to lavish it upon that 
Sarah. This was so unnatural, that you may be- 
lieve it first disgusted, and then irritated me. One 
day at the Club I could not resist saying, ‘You are 
an ass. La Bride, to ruin yourself — worse than that 


CAMORS. 


51 


to ruin your sister, for the sake of a snail, so little 
sympathetic ; for Sarah, a girl who always has a 
cold in the head, and who has already deceived 
you.’ ‘Deceived me!’ cried La Bride, waving his 
long arms. ‘ Deceived me ! and with whom V 
‘ With me.’ As he knew I never lied, he panted 
for my life. Luckily my life is a tough one.” 

“ You put him in bed for three months, I 
hear.” 

“ About that, yes. And now, my friend, do mo 
a service. I am a bear, a savage, a ghost ! Assist 
me to return to life. Let us go and sup with some 
sprightly people whose virtue is extraordinary.” 

“ Agreed. That is recommended by my physi- 
cian.” 

“ From Cairo, nothing could be better, my 
Prince.” 

Half an hour later Louis de Camors, the Prince 
d’Errol, and a half-dozen guests of both .sexes, 
took possession of an apartment, the closed doors 
of which we must respect. 

Next morning, at gray dawn, the party was 
about to disperse ; and at the moment a rag-picker, 
with a gray beard, was wandering up and down 
before the restaurant, raking with his hook in the 
dirt piles that awaited the public sweepers. In 
closing his purse, with an unsteady hand, Camors 
let fall a shining louis d’or, whi<'b rolled into the 


52 


CAkORS. 


mud on the sidewalk. The rag-picker looked up 
with a timid smile. 

“ Ah ! Monsieur,” he said, “ what falls into the 
trench should belong to the soldier.” 

“ Pick it up with your teeth, then,” answered 
Camors, laughing, “ and it is yours.” 

The man hesitated, flushed under his sunburnt 
cheeks, and threw a look of mortal hate upon the 
laughing group round him. Then he knelt down, 
buried his chest in the mire, and sprang up next 
moment with the coin clenched between Iiis sharp 
white teeth. The charming young people aj>- 
plauded. The chiflbnnier smiled a dark smile, and 
turned away. 

“ Hello, my friend !” cried Camors, touching his 
arm, “ would you like to earn five louis ? If so, 
give me a bufiet. That will give you pleasure and 
do me good.” 

The man turned, looked him steadily in the eye, 
then suddenly dealt him such a blow in the face, 
that he reeled against the opposite wall. The 
young men standing by made a movement to fall 
upon the graybeard. 

“ Let no one harm him !” cried Camors. “ Here, 
my man, are your hundred francs.” 

“Keep them,” replied the other, “I am paid;” 
iiid walked away. 


CAMons. 


‘‘ Bravo, Belisarius !” lauglied Camors. “ Faith, 
gentlemen, I do not know if you agree with me, 
but I am really charmed with this little episode 
I must go dream upon it. Bye-bye, young ladies 
Good-day, Prince !” 

An early cab was passing, he jumped in, and 
was driven rapidly to his hotel, on the rue Babet- 
de-Jouy. 

The door of the courtyard was open, but being 
still under the influence of the wine he had drunk, 
he failed to notice a confused group of servants 
and neighbors standing before the stable doora 
Upon seeing him, these people became suddenly 
silent, and exchanged stupid looks of sympathy and 
compassion. Camors occupied the second floor of 
the hotel ; and ascending the stairs, found himself 
suddenly facing his father’s valet. The man was 
very pale, and held a sealed paper, which he ex- 
tended with a trembling hand. 

“What is it, Joseph?” asked Camors. 

“ A letter which — which M. le Comte wrote for 
you before, he left. 

“ Before he left ! my father is gone then ? But — 
where — how ? What, the devil ! why do you cry 
so ?” 

Unable to speak, the servant handed him the 
paper. Camors seized it — and tore it open. 


54 


CAMORS. 


“Good God! there is blood! what is this!” 
He read the first words — “ My son, life is a burden 
to me. I leave it — ” and fell lifeless to the floor. 

The poor lad loved his father, notwithstanding 
all the past. 

They carried him to his chamber. 


CAMORS. 


55 


CHAPTER III. 

THE REMI^ANTS FROM THE REVOLUTION. 

Louis de Camors, on leaving college, had rushed 
into society, as you remember, with a h'eart swell- 
ing with those virtues of youth — confidence, enthu- 
siasm, sympathy. The horrible neglect of his early 
education had not corrupted, in his veins, those 
germs of weakness which, as his father declared, 
his mother’s milk had deposited there; for that 
father, by shutting him up, to get rid of him for a 
dozen years in a college, had rendered him the 
greatest service in his power. 

These ancient classic prisons surely do good. 
The healthy discipline of the school ; the daily con- 
tact of young, fresh hearts; the long familiarity 
with the best works, powerful intellects, and great 
souls of the ancients — all these perhaps may not 
inspire a very rigid morality, but they do inspire 
a certain sentiment of life and of duty which has its 
value. 

The vague heroism which Camors first conceived 
he brought away with him. He demanded nothing, 
as you may remember, but the practical formula 


5G 


CAMORS. 


for the time and countiy in wliicli le was destined 
to live. He found, doubtless, that the task he set 
himself was more, difficult than he had imagined ; 
that the truth to which he would devote himself— 
but which he must first draw from the bottom of 
its well — did not stand upon many compliments. 
But he failed no preparation to serve her valiantly 
as a man might, so soon as she answered his appeal. 
He had the advantage for several years of opposing 
to the excitements of his age and of an opulent life 
tlie austere meditations of the poor student. 

During that period of ardent, laborious youth, 
he faithfully shut himself up in libraries, attended 
mjblic lectures, and gave himself a solid founda- 
tion of learning, which we discover with some sur- 
prise under the elegant frivolity of the gay turf- 
man. But while arming himself for the battle of 
life, he lost, little by little, what was more essential 
than the best weapons — true courage. 

In proportion as he followed Truth day by day, 
she flew before and eluded him, taking, like an 
unpleasant vision, the form of the thousand-headed 
Chimera. 

About the middle of this century, Paris was so 
covered with political and religious ruins, as it 
were, that the most jfiercing vision could scarcely 
distinguish the outlines of the fresh structures of 
the future. One could see that everything was over* 


CAMORS, 


7 


thrown; but one could not see any power that 
was to raise the ruins. Over the confused wrecks 
and remains of the Past, the powerful intellectual 
life of the Present — Progress — the collision of 
ideas — the flame of French wit — criticism and the 
sciences — threw a brilliant light, which, like the sun 
of the first ages, illuminated the chaos without 
making it 23roductive. The phenomena of Life and 
those of Death were commingled in one huge fer- 
mentation, in which everything decomposed and 
whence nothing seemed to spring up again. 

At no period of history, perhaps, has Truth beeii 
less simple, more enveloped in complications ; for 
it seemed that all essential notions of humanity 
had been fused in a great furnace, and none had 
come out whole. 

The spectacle is grand; but it troubles pro- 
foundly all souls — or at least those that interest 
and curiosity do not suffice to fill ; which is to say, 
nearly all. To disengage from this bubbling chaos 
one pure religious moral, one positive social idea, 
one fixed political creed, were an enterprise for the 
most sincere. 

Let us hope, however, it is not beyond the 
strength of a man of good intentions ; and Louis 
de Camors might have accomplished the task had 
he been aided but by better instruction and 
guidance. 


68 


CAMOBS 


It is the common misfortune of those just enter- 
ing life to find in it less than their ideal. But in this 
respect Camofs was born under a particularly un- 
fortunate star, for he found in his surroundings — 
in his own family even — but the worst side of hu- 
man nature ; and, in some respects, of those very 
opinions to which he was tempted to adhere. 

Let us glance at what this family was. 

The Camors wei’e originally from Brittany, 
where they held, in the last century, large pos- 
sessions, particularly some extensive forests, which 
still bear their name. The grandfather of Louis, 
the Count Herve de Camors, had, on his return 
from the emigration, rebought a small part of the 
hereditary demesne. There he established himself 
in the old-fashioned style, and nourished until his 
death incurable prejudices against the French Rev- 
olution and against Louis XVIII. 

Count Herve had four children, two boys and 
two girls, and feeling it his duty to protest against 
the levelling influences of the Civil Code, estab- 
lished during his life, by a legal subterfuge, a sort 
of entail in favor of his eldest son, Charles-Henri, 
to the prejudice of Robert-Sosthene, Eleanore- 
Jeanne, and Louise-Elizabeth, his other heirs, 
Eleanore- J eanne and Louise-Elizabeth accepted 
with apparent willingness the act that benefited 
their brother at their expense — notwithstanding 


CAM0R8. 


59 


that they never forgave him. But Robert-Sosthdne, 
who, in his position as representative of the younger 
branch, affected liberal leanings and was besides 
loaded with debt, rebelled against the parental 
procedure. He burned his visiting cards, orna- 
mented with the family crest and his name — 
“ Chevalier Lange d’ Ardennes” — and had others 
printed, simply “ Dardennes, Junior (du Mor- 
bihan).” 

Of these he sent a specimen to his father, and 
from that hour became a declared Republican. 

There are people who attach themselves to a 
party by their virtues; others, again, by their 
vices. There exists no recognized political party 
which does not contain some true principle ; 
which does not respond to some legitimate aspira- 
tion of human society. At the same time, there is 
not one which cannot serve as a pretext, as a 
refuge, and as a hope, for the basest passions of 
our nature. 

Tlie most advanced portion of the liberal party 
of France is composed of generous spirits, ardent 
and absolute, who torture a really elevated ideal : 
that of a society of manhood, constituted with a 
sort of philosophic perfection; her own mistress 
each day and each hour ; delegating scarcely any 
of her powers, and yielding none; living, not 
without laws, but without rulers; and, in short. 


60 


CAMORS. 


developing her activity, her well-being, her geni as, 
with that fulness of justice, of independence, and 
of dignity, which Republicanism alone gives to 
all and to each one. 

Every other system appears to them to preserve 
some of the slaveries and iniquities of the ancient 
world ; and it also appears open to the suspicion 
of generating diverse interests — and often hostile 
ones — between the governors and the governed. 
They claim for all, that political system which, 
without doubt, holds humanity in the most esteem ; 
and however one may despise the practical work- 
ing of their theory, the grandeur of its principles 
cannot be despised. 

They are in reality a proud race, high-hearted 
and spirited. They have had in every age their 
heroes and their martyrs ; but they have had, on 
the other hand, their hypocrites, their adventurers, 
and their Radicals — their greatest enemies. 

Young Dardennes, to obtain grace for the equiv- 
ocal origin of his convictions, placed himself in 
the front rank of these last. 

Until he left college Louis de Camors never 
knew his uncle, who had remained on bad terms 
with his father; but he entertained for him, in 
secret, an enthusiastic admiration, attributing to 
\iim all the virtues of that principle of which he 
seemed the exponent. 


CAMORS. 


61 


The Republic of ’48 soon died : his uncle was 
among the vanquished; and this, to the young 
man, was but an additional attraction. Without 
his father’s knowledge, he went to see him, as if on 
a pilgrimage to a holy shrine; and he was well 
received. 

He found his uncle exasperated — not so much 
against his enemies as against his own party, 
to which he attributed all the disasters of the 
cause. 

“ They never can,” he said in a solemn, dogmatic 
tone — “ they never can make revolutions with 
gloves on. The men of ’93 did not wear them. 
You cannot make an omelette without first breaking 
the eggs. 

oo 

“The pioneers of the future should march on, 
axe in hand ! 

“ The chrysalis of the people is not hatched 
upon roses ! 

“ Liberty is a goddess who demands great holo- 
causts. Had they made a Reign of Terror in ’48, 
they would now be masters !” 

These high-flown maxims astonished Louis de 
Camors. In his youthful simplicity he had an in- 
finite respect for the men who had governed his 
country in her darkest hour; not more that they 
had given up power as poor as when they assumed 
it, than that they left it with their hands unstained 


62 


CAMOBS. 


with blood. To this praise — which will be ao 
corded them by history, which redresses many 
contemporary injustices — he added a reproach 
which he could not reconcile with the strange re- 
grets of his uncle. He reproached them with not 
having more boldly separated the Hew Republic, 
in its management and minor details, from the 
memories of the old one. Far from agreeing 
with his uncle that a revival of the horrors of ’93 
Avould have assured the triumph of the Hew Re- 
public, he believed it had sunk under the bloody 
shadow of its predecessor. He believed it owing 
to this boasted Terror that France had been for 
centuries the only country in which the dangers of 
liberty outweighed its benefits. 

It is useless to dwell longer on the relations of 
Louis de Camors with his uncle Dardennes. It is 
enough that he was doubtful and discouraged, and 
made the too common error of holding the cause 
responsible for the violence in sufliciently disa- 
vowed of its lesser apostle, and that he adopted 
the fatal error, too common in France at this mo- 
ment, of confounding progress with discord, liberty 
with license, and revolution with terrorism ! 

The natural result, on this ardent spirit, of irrita- 
tion and disenchantment, was to swing rapidly 
round to the opposite pole of opinion. After all, 
r amors argued, his birth, his name, his family ties 


CAMOBS. 


63 


all pointed out his true course. It was to combat 
the cruel and despotic doctrines which he believed 
he detected under these democratic theories. An- 
other thing in the habitual language of his uncle 
also shocked and repelled him — the profession of 
an absolute atheism. He had within him, in de- 
fault of a formal creed, a fund of general belief 
and respect for holy things — that kind of religious 
sensibility which was shocked by impious cyni 
cism. Further he could not comprehend then, or 
ever afterward during the whole course of his life, 
how principles alone, without roots in some higher 
sanction, could sustain themselves in the human 
conscience by their own strength. 

God — or no principles ! This was the dilemma 
from which no German philosophy could rescue him. 

This reaction in his mind drew him closer to 
those other branches of his family he had hitherto 
neglected. His two aunts, living at Paris, had, in 
consequence of their small fortunes, been both 
obliged to make some sacrifices to enter into the 
blessed estate of matrimony. The elder Eleanore- 
Jeanne had married, during her father’s life, the 
Count de la Roche- Jugan — a man long past fifty, 
but still well worthy of being loved. Neverthe- 
less, his wife did not love him. Their views on 
many essential points difiered widely. M. de la 
Roche- Jugan was one of those who had served the 


84 


CAMORS, 


Government of the Restoration with an unsnaken 
but hopeless devotion. In his youth he had been 
attached to the person and to the ministry of the 
Due de Richelieu ; and he had preserved the mem- 
ory of that illustrious man — of the elevated mod- 
eration of his sentiments — of the warmth of his 
patriotism and of his constancy. He saw the pit- 
falls ahead, pointed them out to his prince — dis- 
pleased him by so doing, but still followed his 
fortunes. Once more retired in private life with 
but small means, he guarded his political principles 
rather like a religion than a hope. His hopes, his 
vivacity, his love of right — all these he turned 
toward God. 

His piety, enlightened as profound, ranked him 
among the choicest spirits who then endeavored 
to reconcile the national faith of the past with the 
inexorable liberty of thought of the present. Like 
his co-laborers in this work, he experienced only a 
mortal sadness, under which he sank. True, his 
wife contributed no little to hasten his end by the 
intemperance of her zeal and the acrimony of her 
bigotry. 

She was a woman of little heart and great pride, 
who made her God subserve her passions, as Dar- 
ien nes made liberty subserve his malice. 

No sooner had she become a widow than she 
purified her salons. Thenceforth figured there only 


C AMORS. 


G5 


parishioners more orthodox than their bisliops, 
French priests who denied Bossuet; and conse- 
quently religion was saved in France. Louis de 
Camors, admitted to this choice circle by title both 
of relation and convert', there found the devotion 
of Louis XL with the charity of Catherine de 
Medicis ; and he there lost very soon the little 
faith that remained to him. 

He asked himself sadly if there was no middle 
ground between Terror and Inquisition ; if in this 
world one must be a fanatic or nothing. He sought 
a middle course, possessing the force and cohesion 
of a party ; but he sought it in vain. It seemed 
to him that the whole world of politics and reli- 
gion rushed to extremes ; and that what was not 
extreme was inert and indifferent — dragging out, 
day by day, an existence without faith and without 
principle. 

Thus at least appeared to him those whom the 
sad changes of his life showed him as types of 
modern politics. 

His younger aunt, Louise-Elizabeth, who en- 
joyed to the full all the pleasures of modern life, 
had already profited by her father’s death to make 
a rich misalliance. She married the Baron Ton- 
nelier, whose fiither, although the son of a miller, 
had shown ability and honesty enough to fill high 
positions under the first Empire. 


66 


CAM0R3. 


The Baron Tonnelier had a large fortune, increas- 
ing every day by successful speculation. In his 
youth he had been a good horseman, a Voltarian, 
and — a liberal ! 

In time — ^though he remained a Voltarian — he 
renounced horsemanship, and, above all, being a 
liberal. While a simple deputy, he now and then 
had a twinge of democracy ; but once invested with 
the peerage, he knew from that moment the human 
species had ho more progress to make. 

The French Revolution was ended ; its giddiest 
height attained. No longer could any one walk, 
talk, write, or scold. That perplexed him. Had 
he been sincere, he had avowed that he could not 
comprehend that there could be storms, or thunder- 
clouds in the heavens — that the world was not 
perfectly happy and tranquil, while he himself was 
so. When his nephew was old enough to compre- 
hend him, Baron Tonnelier was no longer peer of 
France ; but being one who does himself no hurt — 
and sometimes much good — by a tumble, he filled 
a high position under the new government. And 
this he endeavored to fill conscientiously, as he had 
that of the preceding reign. 

He spoke with peculiar ease of suppressing this 
or that journal — such an orator, such a book; of 
suppressing everything, in short, except himself. 
In his view, France had been in the wrong road 


C AMORS. Q^J 

since 1789, and he sought to lead her back from 
that fatal date. 

Nevertheless, he never spoke of returning, in hia 
proper person, to his grandfather’s mill ; which, tc 
say the least, was inconsistent. Had Liberty been 
mother to this nice old gentleman, and had he met 
her in a clump of woods, he would have strangled 
her. We regret to add that he had the habit of 
terming “Old Buffers” such ministers as he sus- 
pected of liberal views, and especially such as were 
in favor of popular education. A more hurtful 
councillor never approached a throne ; but luckily, 
while near it in position, he was far from it in in- 
fluence. 

He was still a charming man, gallant and fresh — 
more gallant, however, than fresh. Consequently 
his habits were not too good, and he haunted the 
green-room of the opera. He had two daughters, 
recently married, before whom he repeated the 
most piquant witticisms of Voltaire and the most 
improper stories of Tallemant de Reaux ; and con- 
sequently both promised to afford the scandalous 
chronicle, as their mother had done before them, 
a series of racy anecdotes. 

While Louis de Camors was learning rapidly, 
by the association and example of the collateral 
branches of his family, to defy equally all princi- 


68 


C A MORS. 


pies and all convictions, his terrible father finished 
tlie task. 

Worldling to the last extreme, depraved to his 
very core; past-master in the high art of Parisian 
raillery ; an unbridled egotist, thinking himself su- 
perior to everything because he abased everything 
to himself ; and, finally, flattering himself for de- 
spising all duties, which he liad all his life prided 
himself on dispensing with; such was his fa<;her. 
But for all this, the pride of his circle, with a pleas- 
ing presence and an indefinable charm of manner. 

The father and son saw each other but little. 
M. de Camors was too proud to entangle his son 
in his own debaucheries ; but the course of every- 
day life sometimes brought them together at meal- 
time. He would then listen with cool mockery to 
the enthusiastic or despondent speeches of the 
youth. He never deigned to argue seriously, but 
responded in a few bitter words, that fell like drops 
of sleet on the few sparks still glowing in the son’s 
heart. 

Becoming gradually discouraged, the latter lost 
all taste for work, and gave himself up, more and 
more, to the idle pleasures of his position. Aban- 
doning himself utterly to these, he threw into them 
all the seductions of his person, all the generosity 
of his character — but at the same time a sadness 
always gloomy, some times desperate. 


VAMOES. 


C9 


The bitter malice he displayed, however, did not 
prevent his being loved by women and renowned 
among men. And the. latter imitated him. 

He aided materially in founding a charming 
school of youth, without its smiles. Ilis air of 
ennui and lassitude, which with him at least had 
the excuse of a serious foundation, was servilely 
copied by the youth around him, who never knew 
.any greater distress than an overloaded stomach, 
but whom it pleased, neverthless, to appear faded 
in their flower and contemptuous of human nature. 

We have seen Camors in this phase of his ex- 
istence. But let us remember that nothing was 
more foreign to him than this mask of careless 
disdain the young man assumed. Upon falling 
into the common ditch, he, perhaps, had one ad- 
vantage over his fellows: he did not make his bed 
with base resignation — he raised himself ceaselessly 
from it by a violent struggle, only to be hurled 
upon it once more. 

Strong souls do not sleep easily: indifleren e 
weighs them down. 

They demand a mission — a motive for action- a 
faith. 

Louis de Camors was yet to find his. 




70 


CAMORS. 


CHAPTER IV 

A. CHANGE OF SCENE, WITH A NEW ACTRESS IN A 
NOVEL ROLE. 

Louis de Camors’ father had not told him all 
in tjjat last letter. 

Instead of leaving him a fortune, he left him only 
embarrassments, for he was three-fourths ruined. 
The disorder of his affairs dated very far back, and 
it was to repair them that he had married ; a pro- 
cess that had not proved successful. A large 
inheritance on which he had relied as coming 
to his wife went elsewhere — to endow a charity 
hospital. The Count de Camors began a suit to 
recover it before the tribunal of the Council of 
State, but compromised it for an annuity of 30,000 
francs. This stopped at his death. lie enjoyed, 
besides, several fat sinecures, which his name, his 
social position, and his personal address secured 
him from some of the great insurance companies. 
But these resources did not survive him ; he only 
rented the house he had occupied ; and the young 
Count de Camors found himself suddenly reduced 
to the provision of his mother’s dowry — a bare 
pittance to a man of his habits and rank. 


CAMORS. 


71 


His father had often assured him he could leave 
him nothing, so the son was accustomed to look 
forward to this position. Therefore, when he real- 
ized it, he was neither surprised nor revolted by 
the improvident egotism of which he was the vic- 
tim. His reverence for his father continued un- 
abated, and he did not read with the less respect 
or confidence the singular missive which figures at 
the commencement of this story. The moral theo- 
ries which this letter advanced were not new to 
him. They made the atmosphere around him : ho 
had often revolved them in his feverish brain : yet, 
never before had they appeared to him in the con- 
densed form of a dogma — with the clear precision 
of a practical code : nor as now, with the authoriza 
tion of such a voice and of such an example. 

One incident gave powerful aid in confirming the 
impression of these last pages on his mind. Eight 
days after his father’s death he was reclining on 
the lounge in his smoking-room, his face dark as 
night and as the thoughts which filled him, when 
a servant entered and handed him a card. lie 
took it listlessly, and read — “ Lescande, architect.” 
Two red spots rose to his pale cheeks — “ I do not 
see any one,” he said. 

“ So I told this gentleman,” replied the servant, 
“but he insists in such an extraordinary man- 
ner — ” 


72 


CAMOES. 


“ In an extraordinary manner !” 

“Yes, sir; as if he had something very serious 
to communicate.” 

“Something serious — aha! Then let liim in.” 
Camors rose and paced tlie chamber, a smile of 
bitter mockery wreathing liis lips. “And must I 
now kill him?” he muttered between his teeth. 

Lescande entered, and his first act dissipated the 
doubts his conduct had caused. He rushed to the 
young count and seized him by both hands, while 
Camors remarked that his face was troubled and 
his lips trembled. “Seat yourself and be calm,” 
he said. 

“ My friend,” said the other, after a })ause, “ I 
come late to see you, for which I crave pardon ; 
but — I am /myself so miserable! See, I am in 
mourning !” 

Camors felt a chill run to his very marrow. “ In 
mourning ! — and why?” he asked, mechanically. 

“Juliette is dead !” sobbed Lescande, and covered 
his eyes with his great hands. 

“ Great God !” cried Camors in a hollow voice. 
He listened a moment to Lescande’s bitter sobs, 
then made a movement to take his hand, but dared 
not do it. “ Great God ! is it possible ?” he repeated, 
bitterly grieved. 

“ It was so sudden !” sobbed Lescande, brokenly. 
“ It seems like a dream — a frightful dream ! You 


CAMORS. 


73 


know the last time you visited us she was not wi'll. 
You remember I told you she had wept all clay. 
Poor child ! The morning of my return she was 
seized with congestion — of the lungs — of the brain 
— I don’t know! — but she -is dead 1 And so good ! 
— so gentle, so loving !— to the last moment ! Oh, 
my friend ! my friend !” 

He sobbed, shuddering a moment. 

“ A few moments before she died, she called me 
to her side. ‘ Oh ! I love you so 1 I love you so !’ 
she said. ‘ I never loved any but you — you only ! 
Pardon me ! — oh, pardon me !’ Pardon her, poor 
child! My God, for what? for dying? — for she 
never gave me a moment’s grief before in this 
world. Oh, God of mercy !” 

“ I beseech you, my friend — ” 

“ Yes, yes, I was wrong. You also have your 
griefs. But we are all selfish, you know. But it 
was not of that 1 came to speak. Tell me ; I know 
not if a report I hear is correct. Pardon me if I 
mistake, for you know I would never dream of 
offending you ; but they do say that you have been 
left in very bad circumstances. If this is indeed 
so, my friend — ” • 

“ It is interrupted Camors abruptly. 

“ Well, if it were — I do not intend keeping my 
little house. Why should I, now ? My little son 
can wait while I work for him. Then, after selling 


J 


^4 CAM0R8. 

my house, I shall have 200,000 francs. Half of 
this is yours — return it when you can !” 

“ Thanks, unselfish friend,” replied Camors, much 
moved, “ hut I need nothing. My aflfairs are dis- 
ordered, it is true ; but I shall still remain richer 
than you.” 

“Yes, but with your tastes — ” 

“Well ?” 

“ At all events, you know where to find me. 1 
can count upon you^ — can I not ?” 

“ You can.” 

“Adieu, my friend! I do you no good now; 
but I will see you again — shall 1 not?” 

“Yes — another time.” 

Lescande departed, and the young count re- 
mained immovable, with his features convulsed and 
his eyes fixed on vacancy. 

This moment decided his whole future. 

There are times when nothingness makes itself 
so palpable that we feel it a reality, and seek to 
avoid it. 

In the presence of this unhappy man, so unwor- 
thily treated, so broken-spirited, so confiding, Ca- 
mors — if there be any truth in old spiritual laws — • 
should have seen himself guilty of an atrocious act, 
which should have condemned him to a remorse 
almost unbearable. 

But if it were true that the human herd was but 


CAMORa. 


75 

the product of material forces in nature, producing, 
haphazard, strong beings and weak ones — lambs and 
lions — he had played only the lion’s part in de- 
stroying his companion. He said to himself, with 
his father’s letter beneath his eyes, that this was 
the fact ; and the reflection calmed him. 

The more he thought, that day and the next, in 
depth of the retreat in which he had buried himself, 
the more was he persuaded that this doctrine was 
that very truth which he had sought, and which 
his father had bequeathed to him as the whole rule 
of his life. Ilis cold and barren heart opened with 
a voluptuous pleasure under this flame that filled 
and warnaed it. 

From tliis moment he possessed a faith — a prin- 
ciple of action — a plan of life, — all that he needed; 
and was no longer oppressed by doubts, agitation, 
and remorse. This doctrine, if not the most ele- 
vated, was at least above the level. It satisfied 
his pride and justified his scorn. 

To preserve his self-esteem, it was only necessary 
for him to preserve his honor, to do nothing low, 
as his father had said ; and he determined never to 
do anything which, in his eyes, partook of that 
character. Moreover, were there not men he him- 
self had met thoroughly steeped in materialism, 
who wei'e yet regarded as the most honorable men 
*)f their day ? 


•76 


CAMORS. 


Perhaps he might have asked himself if this 
incontestable fact might not, in part, have been 
attributed rather to the individual than to the 
doctrine ; and if men’s beliefs did not always in- 
fluence their actions. However that might have 
been, from the date of this crisis Louis de Caniors 
made his father’s wilf the rule of his life. 

To develop in all their strength the physical 
and intellectual gifts which he possessed ; to make 
of himself the polished type of the civilization of 
the times ; to charm women and control men ; to 
revel in all the joys of intellect, of the senses, and 
of position ; to subdue as servile instincts all nat- 
ural sentiments ; to scorn, as chimeras and hypoc- 
risies, all vulgar beliefs ; to love nothing, fear 
nothing, respect nothing, save honor: — such, in 
tine, were the duties which he recognized, and the 
rights which he arrogated to himself. 

It was with these redoubtable weapons, and 
strengthened by a keen intelligence and vigorous 
will, that he would return into the world — his brow 
calm and grave, his eye caressing while unyielding, 
a smile upon his lips, as men had known him. 

From this moment there was no cloud eithei 
upon his mind or upon his face, which wore the 
aspect of perpetual youth. He determined, above 
all, not to retrench, but to preserve, spite the nar- 
rowi ess of his present fortune, those habits of 


CAMORS. 


11 


f'-legant luxury in which he still might indulge for 
several years to come, by the expenditure of his 
principal. 

Both pride and policy gave him this counsel in 
an equal degree. He was not ignorant that this 
world was cold toward the needy as it was warm 
to those not needing its countenance. Had he 
^been thus ignorant, the attitude of his family, just 
after the death of his father, would have opened 
his eyes to the fact most plainly. 

His aunt de la Roche- Jugan and his uncle Ton- 
nelier manifested toward him the cold circumspec- 
tion of people who suspected they were dealing 
with a ruined man. They had even, for greater 
security, left Paris, and neglected to notify the 
young count in what retreat they had chosen to 
hide their grief. Nevertheless he was soon to 
learn it, for whilst he was busied in settling his 
father’s affairs and organizing his own projects of 
fortune and ambition, one fine morning in August 
he met with a lively surprise. 

He counted among his relations one of the rich- 
est landed proprietors of France, the General 
Campvallon d’Arminges,. celebrated for his fearful 
bursts in the Corps Legislatif. He had a voice of 
thunder, and when he rolled out, “ Bah ! Enough ! 
Stop this order of the day !” the senate trembled, 
and the o-o’ ernment commissioners bounced on 


IS 


GAAfOnS. 


tlieir seats. Yet he was the best fellow in the 
world, although he had killed two fellow-creatures 
in duels — but then he had his reasons for hat. 

Camors knew him but slightly, paid him the 
necessary respect that politeness demanded for a 
relative ; met him sometimes at the Club, over a 
game of whist, and that was all. 

Two years before the General had lost a nephew, 
the direct heir to his name and fortune. Conse- 
quently he Avas hunted by an eager pack of cous- 
ins and relations ; and Mde. de la lioche-Jugaii 
and the Baroness Tonnelier gave tongue in their 
foremost rank. 

Camors was indifferent, and had, since that 
event, been particularly reserved in his intercourse 
with the General. It was therefore with consid- 
erable astonishment that he received the following 
letter : — 

“ Dear Kinsman : 

“Your two aunts and their families are Avith me 
in the country. When it is agreeable to you to 
join them, I shall ahvays feel happy to give a cor- 
dial greeting to the son of an old friend and com- 
panion-in-arms. 

“ I presented myself at your house before leaving 
Paris, but you were not visible. 

“ Believe me, I comprehend your grief : that you 


CAM0R3. 


19 


have experienced an irreparable loss, in which ] 
sympathize with you most sincerely. 

“Keceive, my dear kinsman, the best wishes of 
“ General, the 

Marquis he Campvallon d’Armignes. 

“ Chateau de Campvallon^ Voie de Vouest. 

“ P. S. — It is probable, my young cousin, that 
I may have something of interest to communicate 
to you !” 

This last sentence, and the exclamation mark 
that followed it, failed not to shake slightly the 
impassive calm that Caniors was at the moment 
cultivating. He could not help seeing, as in a 
mirror, under the veil of the mysterious “P. S.,” 
the reflection of 700,000 francs of ground-rent 
which made the splendid income of the General. 
He recalled that his father, who had served some 
time in Africa, had been attached to the .staff of 
M. Campvallon as aide-de-camp, and that he had 
besides rendered him a great service of a different 
nature. 

Notwithstanding he felt the perfect absurdity of 
these dreams,- and wished to keep his heart free 
from them, he left next day for Campvallon. After 
enjoying for seven or eight hours all the comforts 
and luxuries the Western line is reputed to afford 
its guests, Camors arrived in the evening at the 


80 


CAMORS. 


Station, where the General’s carriage awaited him. 
The seignorial masses of the Chateau Campvallon 
soon appeared to him on a height, of which the 
sides were covered with magnificent woods, sloping 
down nearly to the plain, there spreading out 
widely. 

It was almost-dinner hour ; and the young man, 
arranging his toilet, almost immediately descended 
to the drawing-room, where his presence seemed to 
throw a wet blanket over the assembled circle. To 
make up for this, the General gave him the warmest 
welcome ; only — as he had a short memory or but 
little imagination — he found nothing better to say 
than to repeat the expressions of his letter, while 
squeezing his hand almost to the point of frac- 
ture. 

“The son of my old friend and companion-in- 
arms,” he cried ; and the woi*ds rang out in such a 
sonorous voice they seemed to impress even liini- 
self — for it was noticeable that after a remark, the 
General always seemed astonished, as if startled by 
the words that came out of his mouth, and tliat 
seemed suddenly to expand the compass of his 
ideas and the depth of his sentiments. 

To complete his portrait : he was a man of me- 
dium size, square, and stout; panting when he 
iscended the stairs, or even on level ground; a 
face massive and broad as a masker’s, and remind- 


CAMOBS. 


81 


ing one of those fabled beings who blew fire from 
their nostrils ; a huge moustache, white and grizzly ; 
e/es small, and always fixed like those of a doll, 
but still terrible. He marches toward you from 
alar, slowly, imposingly, with eyes fixed for fasci- 
nation, as in a duel to the death, and demands of 
you imperatively the — hour ! 

Camors well knew this innocent weakness of his 
host, but, notwithstanding, was its dupe for one 
instant during the evening. 

They had left th'e dinner-table, and he was" 
standing carelessly in the alcove of a window, 
holding a cup of coffee, when the General ap- 
proached him from the extreme end of the room 
with a severe yet confidential expression, wliich 
seemed to preface an announcement of the greatest 
importance. 

The “P. S.” rose before him. 

He felt he was to have an immediate expla- 
nation. 

Tlie General ajiproached, seized him by the but- 
ton-hole, and withdrawing him into the depth of 
the recess, looked into his eyes as if he wished to 
penetrate his very soul. Suddenly he spoke, in 
the tlftinderous voice. He said : 

“What do you take in the morning, young 
man ?” 

“ Tea, .General.” 


82 


CAMOES. 


“ Aha ! Then give your orders to Pierre — just 
as if you were at home and, turning on his heel 
and joining the ladies, he left Camors to digest as 
he might his little comedy. 

Eight days passed. Twice the General made 
his guest the object of .his formidable marches. 
The first time, having put him out of countenance, 
he contented himself with exclaiming — • 

“Well, young man !” and turned on his heel. 
Next time he advanced terribly, said not a word, 
•and retired with huge emphasis. 

Evidently the General had not the slightest re- 
collection of a P. S. Camors tried to be contented, 
but would continually ask himself what he had 
come to do at Campvallon, in the midst of his 
family, of whom he was not over fond, and in the 
depths of the country, which he execrated. Luck- 
ily, the castle boasted a library well stocked with 
works on civil and international law, jurisprudence, 
and political economy. He took advantage of it*; 
and, resuming the thread of those serious studies 
wdiich had been broken off during his period of 
hopelessness, plunged into those recondite themes 
that pleased liis active intelligence and his awak- 
ened ambition. Thus he waited patiently until 
politeness Avould permit him to bring to an ex- 
planation the ancient friend and companion-in-arms 
of his father. In the morning he rode on horse- 


C A MORS. 


*3 


back ; gave a lesson in fencing to his cousin Sigis- 
mund, the son of Mde. de la Koche-Jugan ; then 
shut himself up in the library until the evening, 
which he passed at bezique with the General. 
Meantime he viewed with the eye of a philosopher 
the strife of the covetous relatives who hovered 
around their rich prey. 

Mde. de la Koche-Jugan had invented an original 
way of making herself agreeable to the General, 
which was to persuade him he had disease of the 
heart. She constantly felt his pulse with her 
plump hand, sometimes reassuring him, and at 
others inspiring him with a salutary terror, although 
be denied it. 

“ Good heavens ! my dear cousin !” he wmuld 
exclaim, “ let me alone. I know I am mortal like 
everybody else. What of that ? But I see your 
aim — it is to convert me ! Ta — ta !” 

She not only wished to convert him, but to marry 
him, and bury him besides. 

She based her hopes in this respect chiefly on 
her son Sigismund ; knowing that the General 
bitterly regretted having no one to inherit his 
name. He had but to marry Mde. la Roche and 
adopt her son to banish this care. Without a single 
allusion to this fact, the countess failed not to 
divert the thouglits of tlie General toward it with 
all the tact of an accomplished intriguante^ with all 


84 


CAMOES. 


the ardor of a motlier, and witli all the piety of an 
unctuous devotee. 

Her sister Tonnelier bitterly confessed her own 
disadvantage. She was not a widow. And she 
liad no son. But she had two daughters, both of 
them graceful, very elegant, and flashing as gun- 
powder — one, Madame Bacquiere, the wife of a 
broker; the other, Madame Van-Cuyp, wife of a 
young Hollander, doing business at Paris. 

Both interpreted life and marriage gayly ; both 
floated from one year into another dancing, riding, 
hunting, coquetting, and singing recklessly the 
broadest songs of the minor theatres. Camors, in 
his pensive mood, had taken an aversion to these 
little specimens of fast-fashion and feminine frivol- 
ity. Since he had changed his views of life he did 
them more justice. He said calmly ; 

“ They are pretty little animals that follow their 
instincts.” 

Mdes. Bacquiere and Van-Cuyp, instigated by 
their mother, applied themselves assiduously to 
making the General feel all the sacred joys that 
cluster round the domestic hearth. They enlivened 
liis household, exercised his horses, killed his game, 
and tortured his piano. They seemed to think that 
the General, once accustomed to their sweetness 
and animation, could not do without it, and that 
their society would become indispensable to liim. 


i?AMofiIS. 


U 


Tliey mingled, too, with their adroit manoBuvres, 
familiar and delicate attentions, likely to touch an 
old man. They jumped on his knees, played gently 
with his moustache, and arranged in the last style 
the military knot of his cravat. 

Mde. la Roche never ceased to confidentially de- 
plore to the General the unfortunate education of 
her nieces ; while the Baroness, on her side, lost no 
opportunity of holding up in bold relief the empti- 
ness, impertinence, and sulkiness of young Couiiit 
Sigismund. 

In the midst of these honorable conflicts one per- 
son, who took no part in them, attracted the great- 
est share of Camors’ interest ; first for her beauty 
and afterward for her qualities. This was an or- 
phan of excellent family, but very poor, of whom 
Mde. la Roche and Mde. Tonnclier had taken joint 
charge. Mile. Charlotte de Luc d’Estrelles passed 
six months of each year with the Countess and six 
with the Baroness. She was twenty-five years of 
age, tall and blonde, with deep-set eyes under the 
shadow of sweeping, black lashes. Thick masses 
of liair framed her sad, but splendid brow ; and she 
was badly, or rather poorly dressed, never conde- 
scending to wear the cast-off clothes of her rela- 
tives, but preferring dresses of simplest material 
made by her own hands. These draped her like an 
antique statue. 


CAMOnS. 


Her Tonnelier cousins nicknamed her “ the god* 
dess.” They hated her ; she despised them. The 
name they gave her, however, was marvellously, 
suitable. 

When she walked, you would have imagined she 
had descended from a pedestal; the pose of her 
head was like that of the Greek Venus; her deli- 
cate, dilating nostrils seemed carved by a cunning 
chisel from transparent ivory. Then she had a 
startled, wild air, such as you see in the hunting- 
nymphs. She used a naturally fine voice with 
great effect ; and had already cultivated, as far as 
she could, a taste for art. 

She was naturally so taciturn, one was campelled 
to guess her thoughts ; and long since Camors re- 
flected as to what was passing in that self-concen- 
tred soul. Inspired by his innate generosity, as 
well as his secret admiration, he took pleasure in 
heaping upon this poor cousin the attentions he 
might have paid a queen ; but she always seemed 
as indifferent to them as she was to the opposite 
course of her involuntary benefactress. Her posi- 
tion at Campvallon was very odd. More taciturn 
than ever, absorbed, estranged, as if meditating 
some deep design, she would suddenly raise the 
long lashes of her blue eyes, dart a rapid glance 
here and there, and finally fix it on Cam#rs, who 
would feel himself tremble under it. 


CAMonS. 


87 


One afternoon, as he was seated in the library, 
he heard a gentle tap at the door, and Mademoiselle 
entered, looking very pale. Somewhat astonished, 
he rose and saluted her — 

“ I wish to speak with you, my cousin,” she said. 
The accent was very pure and grave, but slightly 
touched with her evident emotion. Camors stared 
at her, showed her to a divan, and took a chair 
facing her. - 

“You know but little of me, my cousin,” she 
continued, “ but I am frank and courageous. 1 will 
come at once to the object that brings me here. 
Is it true that you are ruined ?” 

“ Why do you ask. Mademoiselle ?” 

“You always have been very good to me — 
you only. I am very grateful to you ; and I 
also — .” She stopped, dropped her eyes, and a 
bright flush suffused her cheeks. Then she bent 
her head, smiling like one who has regained cour- 
age under difficulty. “ Well then,” she resumed, 

“ I am ready to devote my life to you. You will 
deem me very romantic, but I have wrought out , 
of our united poverty a very charming picture, I 
believe. I am sure I would make an excellent wife 
for the husband I loved. If you must leave France, 
as they tell me you must, I will follow you — I will 
be your brave and faithful helpmate. Pardon me, 
one word more, Mr. de Camors. My proposition 


88 


CAMOllS 


would be immodest if it concealed any after 
thought. It conceals none. I am poor. I have 
but 1500 francs income. If you are richer than I, 
consider I have said nothing; for nothing in tlie 
world would then induce me to marry you !” 

She paused; and with a manner of mingled 
yearning, candor and anguish, fixed on fiim her 
large eyes full of fire. 

There was a solemn pause. Between these 
strange natures, both high and noble, a teri-ible 
destiny seemed pending at this moment, and both 
felt it. 

At length Camors responded in a grave, calm 
voice: “It is impossible. Mademoiselle, that you 
can appreciate the trial to which you expose me ; 
but I have searched my heart, and I there find 
nothing worthy of you. Do me the justice to be- 
lieve that my decision is based neither upon your 
fortune nor upon my own: but I have resolved 
never to marry.” She sighed deeply, and rose. 
“ Adieu, cousin,” she said. 

“ I beg — I pray you to remain one moment,” cried 
the young man, reseating her with gentle force upon 
tlie sofa. He walked half across the room to repress 
his agitation; then leaning on a table near the 
young girl, said : 

“ Mile. Charlotte, you are unhappy ; are you not?” 

“ A little, perhaps,” she answered. 


CAMORS. 


89 


“ I do not mean at this moment, but always ?” 

“ Always !” 

“ My Aunt la Roche treats you harshly ?” 

“Undoubtedly; she dreads I may entrap her 
son. Good heaven !” 

“ The little Tonneliers are jealous of you, and 
my uncle Tonnelier torments you ?” 

“ Basely !” she said ; and two tears swam on her 
eyelashes, then glistened like diamonds on her 
cheek. 

“ And what do you believe of the religion of my 
aunt ?” 

“ What would you have me believe of religion 
that bestows no virtue — restrains no vice ?” 

“ Then you are a non-believer ?” 

“ One may believe in God and the Gospel with- 
out believing in the religion of our aunt.” 

“ But my aunt will drive you into a convent. 
Why then do you not enter one ?” 

“ I love life,” the girl said. 

He looked at her silently a moment, then con- 
tinued : ‘^Yes; you love life — the sunlight, the 
thoughts, the arts, the luxuries — everything that 
is beautiful like yourself. Then, Mile. Charlotte, 
all these are in your hands ; why do you not grasp 
them?” 

“ How ?” she queried, surprised and somewiiat 

disgusted. 


00 


CAMORS. 


“ If yon have, as I believe you have, as much 
strength of soul as intelligence and beauty, you 
can escape at once and forever the miserable servi- 
tude fate has imposed upon you. Sovereignly en- 
dowed as you are, you might become to-morrow a 
great artiste^ independent, feted, rich, adored — the 
mistress of Paris and of the world !” 

“ And yours, also — no ?” said this strange girl. 

“ Pardon, Mile. Charlotte. I did not suspect 
you of any improper idea, when you offered to 
share ray uncertain fortunes. Render me, I pray 
you, the same justice at this moment. My moral 
principles are very lax, it is true, but I am as proud 
as yourself. I never shall reach my aim by any 
subterfuge. No; strive to study art. I find you 
beautiful and seductive, but I am governed by 
sentiments superior to personal interests. I was 
profoundly touched by your sympathetic leaning 
toward me, and have sought to testify my grati- 
tude by friendly counsel. Since, however, you 
now suspect me of striving to corrupt you for my 
own ends, I am silent. Mademoiselle, and permit 
you to depart.” 

“ Pray proceed, M. de Camors.” 

“You will then listen to me with confidence?” 

“ I will do so.” 

“Well, then. Mademoiselle, you have seen but little 
of tbo world, but you buvc sceu cuough to jud^e und 


. AMORS. 


91 


to be certain of the value of its esteeri. The 
world ! That is your family and mine : M. and 
Mde. Tonnelier, M. and Mde. de la Roche- Jugan, 
and the little Sigismund ! 

“Well, then, Mile. Charlotte, the day that you 
become a great artiste., rich, triumphant, idolized, 
wealthy — drinking, in huge draughts, all the joys 
of life — that day my uncle Tonnelier will invoke 
outraged morals, my aunt will swoon with prudery 
in the arms of her old lovers, and Mde. la Roche 
will groan and turn her yellow eyes to heaven I 
But what Avill all that matter to you ?” 

“Then, Monsieur, you advise me to lead an im- 
moral life.” 

“ By no manner of means. I only urge yon, in 
deliance of public opinion, to become an actress, 
as the only sure road to independence, fame, and 
fortune. And besides, there is no law preventing 
an actress marrying and being ‘honorable,’ as the 
world understands the word. You have heard of 
more than one example of this.” 

“ Without mother, family, or protector, it would ’ 
De a pretty thing for me to do. I cannot fail to 
see that sooner or later I should be a lost girl.” 

Camors remained silent. “ Why do you not 
answer ?” she asked. 

“Heavens ! Mademoiselle^ because this is so deli- 
pa,te a- subjectj and our ic[ej^s are SQ di^erept pbopt ib 


92 


CAMORS. 


I cannot cliange mine; I must leave you yours. 
for me, I am a very Pagan.” 

“ How ? Are good and bad indifferent to you ?” 

“ No ; but to me it seems bad to fear the opinion 
of people one despises, to practise what one does 
not believe, and to yield before prejudices and 
phantoms of which one knows the unreality. It is 
bad to be a slave or a hypocrite, like three-fourths 
of the world. Evil is ugliness, ignorance, folly, 
and baseness. Good is beauty, talent, ability, and 
courage ! That is all.” 

“ And God ?” the girl cried. He did not reply. 
She looked fixedly at him a moment without catch- 
ing the eyes he kept turned from her. Her head 
drooped heavily; then raising it suddenly, she 
said : “ There are sentiments men cannot under- 
stand. In my bitter hours I have often dreamt 
of this free, wild life you now adyise ; but I liave 
always recoiled before one thought — only one.” 

“ And that ?” 

“ Perhaps the sentiment is not peculiar to me — 
perhaps it is excessive pride, but I have a great 
regard for myself — my person is sacred to me. 
Did I come to believe in nothing, as you do — 
and I am far from that yet, thank God ! — I should 
even then remain honest and pure — faithful to one 
love, simply from pride. I would prefbr,” she 
added, in a voice deep and sustained, but some- 


CAMORS. 


?3 

what strainod, “ I should prefer to desecrate an 
altar rather than myself!” 

Saying these words, she rose, made a haughty 
movement of the head in sign of adieu, and left the 


room. 


94 


CAMORH. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE COUNT LOSES A LADY AND FINDS A MISSION. 

Camoes sat for some time plunged in thought. 

He was astonished at the deptlis he discovered 
in her character ; he was displeased wdth himself 
without well knowing why ; and, above all, he was 
much struck by his cousin. 

However, as he had but a poor opinion of the 
sincerity of women, he persuaded himself that 
Mile, de Luc d’Estrelles, when she came to offer 
him her heart and hand, nevertheless knew he 
was not such a despicable match for her. He said 
to himself that a few years back he might have 
been duped by her apparent sincerity, an.d con- 
gratulated himself on not having fallen into this at- 
tractive snare — on not having listened to the first 
promptings of credulity and sincere emotion. 

He might have spared himself these compliments. 
Mile, de Luc, as he was soon to discover, had been 
in that perfectly frank, generous, and disinterested 
condition in which women sometimes are. 

Only, would it happen to him to find her so in 
tbc future ? That w^s doubtful, thanks to M. d? 


CAMORS. 


95 


Camors. It often happens tliat by despising men 
too much we make, them degraded; in denying 
women too much, we lose them. 

About an hour passed ; there was another rap 
at the library door. Camors felt a slight palpita- 
tion and a secret wish that it should prove Mile. 
Charlotte. 

It was the General who entered. He advanced 
with measured stride, puffed like some sea-monster, 
and seized Camors by the lappel of his coat. Then 
he said, impressively : 

“Well, young gentleman !” 

“ Well, General.” 

“ What are you doing in here ?” 

“ Oh, I am at work.” 

“At work? Um ! Sit down there — sit-down, sit 
down !” lie threw himself on the sofa where Made- 
moiselle had been, which rather changed the per- 
spective for Camors. 

“ Well, well !” he repeated, after a long pause. 

“ But what then, General ?” 

“ What then — the deuce ! Why, have you not 
noticed that I have been for some days extraor- 
dinarily agitated ?” 

“ Heavens, no ! General, I have not noticed it.” 

“You are but little observing! I am extraor- 
dinarily agitated — enough to fatigue the eyes. So 
jigitq-ted, upon m^ wore] of bouor, th^,t there are 


96 


CAMOMS. 


moments when I am tempted to believe yonr aunt 
is right : that I have disease of the heart !” 

“ Bah, General ! My aunt is dreaming ; you have 
the pulse of an infant.” 

“You believe so, really? However, I do not 
fear death ; but it is always tiresome. But I am 
too much agitated — it is necessary to put a stop to 
it. You understand ?” 

“Perfectly ; but how can it concern me?” 

“ Concern you ? You are going to hear. You 
are my cousin, are you not ?” 

“ Truly, General, I have that honor.” 

“ But very distant, eh ? I have thirty-six cousins 
as near as you, and — forty devils ! To speak plain- 
ly, I owe you nothing.” 

“ And I have never demanded payment even of 
that. General.” 

“ Ah, I know that! Well, you are my cousin, 
very far removed ! But you are more than that. 
Your father saved my life in the Atlas. He has 
related it all to you — Ho? Well, that does not 
astonish me ; for he was no braggart, that father 
of yours ; he was a man ! Had he not quitted the 
army, a brilliant career was before him. People 
talk a great deal of Pelissier, of Canrobert, of Mac- 
Malion, and of others. I say nothing against them ; 
they are good men doubtless — at least I hear so; 
but your father would have distanced them all 


CAMonS. 


had he taken the trouble. But he didn’t take tlie 
trouble ! 

“ Well, for the story: We were crossing a gorge 
of the Atlas; we were in retreat; I had lost my 
command ; I was following as an amateur. It is 
useless to weary you with details : we were in re- 
treat ; a shower of stones and bullets poured 
upon us, as if from the moon. Our column 'w as 
slightly disordered; I 'was in the rear-guard-- 
w^hack ! my horse was down, and I under liim ! 
We were in a narrow gorge with sloping sides 
some fifteen feet high : five dirty guerrillas slid 
down the sides and fell upon me and on the beast 
< — forty devils ! I can see them now ! Just here the 
gorge took a sudden turn, so no one could see my 
trouble ; or no one wished to see it, which comes 
to the same thing. 

“ I have told you things were in much disorder ; 
and I beg you to remember that with a dead horse 
and five live Arabs on top of me, I was not very 
comfortable. I was suffocating; in fact, I was 
devilish far from comfortable. 

“ Just then your father ran to my assistance, like 
the noble fellow he was ! He drew me from under 
my horse ; he fell upon the Arabs. When I was up, 
I aided him a little — but that is nothing to the point 
— I will never forget him !” 

There was a pause, when the General added : 


98 


CAMORS. 


“ Let US understand each other, and speak plainly. 
Would it be very repugnant to your feelings tc 
have 700,000 francs a-year, and to be called, after 
me. Marquis de Campvallon d’Armignes ? Come, 
speak up, and give me an answer.” 

The young count reddened slightly. 

“ My name is Camors,” he said gently. 

“ What ! You would not wish me to adopt you ? 
You refuse to become the heir of my name and of 
my fortune?” 

“ Yes, General.” 

“ Do you not wish time to reflect upon it ?” 

“No, General. I am sincerely grateful for your 
goodness ; your generous intentions toward me 
touch me deeply, but in a question of honor I never 
reflect or hesitate.” 

The General puffed fiercely, like a locomotive 
blowing ofi* steam. Then he rose and took two or 
three turns up and down the gallery, shuffling his 
feet, and his chest heaving. Then he returned and 
reseated himself. 

“ What are your plans for the future ?” he asked 
abruptly. 

“ I shall try, in the first place. General, to repair 
my fortune, which is much shattered. I am not so 
great a stranger to business as people suppose, and 
my father’s connections and my own will give me 
a footing in some great financial or industrial eu* 


CAM OHS. 


09 


ferpiifee. Once there, I shall succeed by force of 
will and steady work. Besides, I will fit myself for 
public life, and aspire, when circumstances permit 
me, to become a deputy.” 

“Well, well, a man must do something. Idle- 
ness is the parent of all vices. See ; like yourself, 
I am fond of the horse — a noble animal. I approve 
of racing, it improves the breed of horses, and aids 
in mounting our cavalry efficiently. But sport 
should be an amusement, not a profession. Hem ! 
so you aspire to become a deputy ? ” 

“Assuredly.” 

“ Then I can help you in that, at least. When 
you are ready I will send in my resignation, and 
recommend to my brave and faithful constituents 
that you take my place. Will that suit you ? ” 

“Admirably, General ; and I am truly grateful. 
But why should you resign?” 

“Why? Well, to be useful to you in the first 
place ; in the second, I am sick of it. I shall not be 
sorry to give personally a little lesson to the gov- 
ernment, which I trust will profit by it. You know 
me — I am no Jacobin : first I thought that would 
succeed. But when I see what is going on !” 

“ What is going on. General ?” 

“ When I see a Tonnelier a great dignitary ! It 
makes me long for the pen of Tacitus, on my word. 
When I Avas retired in MS under a mean and cruel 


100 


CAMORS. 


injustice they did me, I had not reached the age of 
exemption. I was still capable of good and loyal 
service ; but I could have raited probably until an 
amendment. I found it at least in the confidence 
of my brave and faithful constituents. But, my 
young friend, one tiree of everything. The Assem- 
blies at the Luxembourg — I mean the Palace of 
the Bourbons — fatigue me. In short, whatever 
regret I may feel at parting from my honorable 
colleagues, and from my faithful constituents, I 
shall abdicate my functions whenever you are ready 
and willing to. accept them. 

“Have you not some property in this dis- 
trict ?” 

“ Yes, General, a little property which belonged 
to my mother ; a small manor, with a little land 
round it, called Reuilly.” 

“Reuilly! Not two steps from Des Rameures ! 
Certainly — certainly ! Well, that is one foot in the 
stirrup.” 

“ But then there is one difficulty ; I am obliged 
to sell it.” 

“ The devil ! And why ?” 

“ It is all that is left to me, and it only brings 
me 11,000 francs a year; and to embark in business 
I need capital — a commencement. I prefer not to 
borrow.” 

The General rose, and once more his military 


camohs. 


101 


tramp shook the gallery. Then he threw himself 
back on the sofa. 

“ You must not sell that property! I owe you 
nothing, ’tis true, but I have an affection for you. 
You refuse to be my adopted son. Well, I regret 
this, and must have recourse to other projects to 
aid you. I warn you I shall try other projects. 
You must not sell your lands if you wish to become 
a deputy, for the country people — especially those 
of Des Rameures — will not hear of it. Meantime 
you will need funds. Permit me to offer you 
300,000 francs. You may return them when you 
can, without interest, and if you never return them 
you will confer a very great favor upon me.” 

“ But in truth. General — ” 

“ Come, come ! Accept it as from a relative — 
from a friend — from your father’s friend — on any 
ground you please, so you accept. If not, you will 
wound me seriously.” 

Camors rose, took the General’s hand, and press- 
ing it with emotion, said briefly — 

“ I accept, sir. Thanks !” 

The General sprang up at these words like a 
furious lion, his moustache bristling, his nostrils 
dilating, his chest heaving. Staring at the young 
count with real ferocity, he suddenly drew him to 
his breast and embraced liim with great fervor. 
Then he strode to the door with his usual solemni- 


102 


CAMORS. 


ty, and quickly brushing a tear from his cheek, left 
the room. 

The General was a good man ; but, like many 
good people, he had not been happy in this life. 

You might smile at his oddities ; you could never 
reproach him with his vices. 

He was but a little man, but he had an immense 
heart. Timid at bottom, especially with women, 
he was delicate, passionate, and chaste. He had 
loved but little, and had never been loved at all. 
Pretending to have retired under a mean wrong 
that was done him, hear what that wrong really 
was. At forty years of age he had married the 
daughter of a poor colonel who was killed by the 
enemy. Hot long after, this orphan had deceived 
him with one of his aides-de-camp. 

The treachery was revealed to him by a rival, 
who played on this occasion the infamous role of 
lago. Campvallon laid aside his starred epauh'ttc's, 
and in two successive duels,- still remembered in 
Africa, killed on two successive days the guilty one 
and his betrayer. His wife died shortly after, and 
he was left more lonely than ever. He was not 
the man to console himself with venal love; a 
gross remark made him blush ; the corps de ballet 
inspired him with terror. He did not dare to avow 
it, but the dream of his old age, with his fierce 
moustache and his grii]i countenance, Avas the de- 


CAMOnS. 


103 


voted love of some young girl, at whose feet he might 
pour out, without shame, without distrust even, all 
the tenderness of his simple and heroic heart. 

On the evening of the day which had been marked 
for Camors by these two interesting episodes. Mile, 
de Luc d’Estrelles did not come down to dinner, 
but sent word she had a bad headache. This mes- 
sage was received with a general murmur; and 
with some sharp remarks from Mde. la Roche, that 
seemed to imply Mademoiselle was not in a position 
which justified her in having a headache. The din- 
ner, however, was not less gay than usual, thanks 
to Mdes. Bacquiere and Yan-Cuyp, and to their hus- 
bands, who had arrived from Paris to pass the 
Sunday with them. 

To celebrate this happy meeting, all four com- 
menced drinking very freely of champagne, talking 
slang, and imitating actors, causing much amuse- 
ment to the servants. Returning to the drawing- 
i*oom, these innocent things thought it very funny 
to take their husbands’ hats, put their feet in them, 
and thus shod, to run a steeple-chase across the 
room. Meantime Mde. la Roche felt the General’s 
pulse very frequently, and found it very variable. 

Next morning at breakfast-hour all the General’s 
guests assembled, excej^t Mile. d’Estrelles, whose 
headache apparently was no better. They re- 
marked also the absence of the General, who was 


104 


CAMOMS. 


the embodiment of politeness and punctuality, iv 
sense of uneasiness was beginning to creep ovei 
all, when suddenly the door opened and the Gen- 
eral appeared leading Mile. d’Estrelles by the hand. 

The eyes of the young girl were very red ; her 
face very pale. The General was scarlet. He ad- 
vanced some steps, like an actor about to address 
his audience ; cast fierce glances on all sides of him, 
and cleared his throat with a sound that echoed 
like the bass notes of a grand piano. Then he 
spoke in a voice of thunder : 

“ My dear guests and friends, permit me to pre- 
sent to you the Marquise de Campvallon d’Ar- 
minges !” 

A banqueting hall at the north pole is not colder 
than was the General’s saloon at this announce- 
ment. 

He still held the young lady by the hand, and 
retaining his position in the centre of the room, 
still launched out his fierce glances. Then his ey(*s 
began to wander and roll convulsively in their 
sockets, as if he was himself astonished at the efic*(*t 
his announcement had produced. 

Camors was the first to come to the rescue, and 
taking his hand, said : “ Accept, my dear General, 
my congratulations. I am extremely happy, and 
rejoice at your good fortune; the more so, as I 
feel the lady is so well worthy of you.” Then 





■ -I 




xp. - 


-vr\ 







•*K5 


*•?> .r*' C • «r*V' V« ,-*lf . • V-l ^ 'I » I . •♦i 

■ •: ■ irff .' r- . •I:";,^''’ '* " 

i. “* Ik '■* •'"T’ ** < ^ ' * . •’ ' ■■ *•' *^1^ ' •■^ 

- 4 VB • ^ A if'* ^•' * .*'* A ^ j ^ _ 


: 





-My ^ *ir > • 


w' i 

"" J* > 


• . ^J. 




-■ ♦ ,■ »► 


\r • '■ ■ • 


f- 

<* • 

,5,, - 

► i 

.v * f* 




: JV 




f »•> 


»#> % 


t, 1 ■• \ ' * C " ,_ 


'^l' 

!> 


4 


/ 


I 




•4 


4 


«r 


, .1 

-V 


* A 

* # 


'•'■■ -Jl 


.• ■ '" % y%--' •'* • H 

sE-;;- ■ jTr; ‘ « /.-/'va- ■^- 





CAMORS. 


105 


uowirig to Mile. d’Estrelles with a grave grace, he 
pressed her hand, and turning away, was struck 
dumb at seeing Mde. la Roche in the arms of the 
General. She passed from his into those of Mile. 
d’Estrelles, who feared at first, from the violence 
of the caresses, that there was a secret design to 
strangle her. 

“ General,” said Mde. de la Roche, in a plaintive 
voice, “ you remember I always recommended her 
ta you. I always spoke well of her. She is my 
daughter — my second child. Sigismund, embrace 
your sister ! You permit it. General ? Ah, we 
never know how much we love these children until 
we lose them ! I always spoke well of her ; did — 
I not — Ge — General ?” And here Mde. la Roche 
burst into tears. 

The General, who began to entertain a high opin- 
ion of the Countess’s heart, declared that Mile. 
d’Estrelles would find in him a friend and father. 
After which flattering assurance, Mde. de la Roche 
seated herself in a solitary corner, behind a cur- 
tain, whence they heard sobs and moans issue for 
a whole hour. She could not even breakfast ; hap- 
piness had taken away her appetite. 

The ice once broken, every one tried to make 
themselves agreeable. The Tonneliers did not be- 
have, however, with the same warmth as the tender 
Countess, and it was easy to that Mdes, Bac- 


106 


CAMOES. 


quicre and Vaii-Ouyp could not picture to them- 
selves without envy the shower of gold and dia 
monds about to fall into the lap of their cousin 
Messrs. Bacquiere and Van-Cuyp were naturally 
the first sufferers, and their eharming wives made 
them understand, at intervals during the day, that 
they thoroughly despised them. It was a bitter 
Sunday for those poor fellows. The Tonnelier 
family also felt there was little more to be done 
there, and left next morning with a very cold 
adieu. 

The conduct of the Countess was more noble. 
She declared she would wait upon her dearly be- 
loved Charlotte from the altar to the very threshold 
of the nuptial chamber; that she would arrange 
her trousseau, and that the marriage should take 
place from her house. 

“ Deuce take me, my dear Countess !” cried the 
General, “ I must declare one thing — you astonish 
me. I was unjust, cruelly unjust, toward you. 
I reproach myself on my faith. I believed you 
worldly, interested, not open-hearted. But you are 
none of these; you are an excellent woman — a 
heart of gold — a noble soul ! My dear friend, you 
have found the best way to convert me. I have 
always believed the religion of honor was sufficient 
for a man — eh, Camors ? But I am not an unbe- 
liever, my dear Countess, and, on my sacred word, 


CAMORS. 


10*; 


when I sue a perfect creature lik . you, I desire tc 
believe everything she believes, if only to be pleas- 
ant to her !” 

When Camors, who was not quite so innocent, 
puzzled himself about the secret of his aunt^s poli- 
tic conduct, but little effort was necessary to un- 
derstand it. 

Mde. de la Koche, who had finally convinced 
herself of the General’s aneurism, flattered herself 
that the cares of matrimony would hasten the 
doom of her old friend. In any event, he was past 
seventy years of age. But Charlotte was young, and 
so also was Si2:ismund. Sio;ismund could become 
tender ; if necessary, could quietly court the young 
Marquise until the day when he could marry her, 
with all her appurtenances, over the mausoleum of 
the General. It was for this that Mde. de la Roche, 
crushed for a moment under the unexpected blow 
that ruined her hopes, had modified her tactics and 
drawn her batteries, so to speak, under cover of 
the enemy. This was Avhat she was contriving 
while she was crying and blowing her nose behind 
the curtain. 

Camors’ personal feelings at the announcement 
of this marriage were not of the most agreeable 
description. Firstly, he was obliged to acknowl- 
edge that he had unjustly judged Mile. d’Estrelles, 
and that at the moment of his accusing her of 


108 


C AMORS. 


speculating on liis small fortune, she was offering 
to sacrifice for him the 700,000 francs per annum 
of the General. He felt his vanity injured, that 
he had not had the best part of this affair. Be- 
sides, he felt obliged to stifle from this moment the 
secret passion with which the beautiful and singu- 
lar girl had inspired him. Wife or widow of the 
General, it was elear that Mile. d’Estrelles had 
forever escaped him. To seduce the wife of this 
good old man from whom he accepted such favors, 
or even to marry her, widowed and rich, after 
refusing her when poor, were equal unworthiness 
and baseness that honor forbade in the same degree 
and with the same rigor as if this honor, which 
he made the only law of his life, were not a 
mockery and an empty word. 

Camors, however, did not fail to comprehend the 
position in this light, and he resigned himself to it. 

Tlie four or five days he remained at Campvallon 
his conduct was perfect. The most delicate and 
reserved attentions with which he surrounded Mile. 
d’Estrelles, were tinged with a melancholy that 
showed her at the same time his gratitude, his re- 
spect, and his regrets. 

M. de Campvallon had not less reason to con 
gratulate himself on the conduct of the young 
Count. He entered into the folly of his host with 
aflectiouate grace. Spoke to him little of the 


CAMORS. 


109 


beauty of his fiancee \ much of her liigh moral 
qualities ; and let him see his most flattering con- 
fidence in the future of this union. 

The eve of his departure Camors was summoned 
into the General’s study. Handing him a check on 
his bankers for 300,000 francs, the latter said — 

“ My dear young friend, I ought to tell you, for 
the peace of your conscience, that I have informed 
Mile. d’Estrelles of this little service I render you. 
She has a great deal of love and aflection for you, 
my dear young friend ; be sure of that. 

“ She therefore received my communication with 
sincere pleasure. I also informed her that I did 
not intend taking any receipt for this sum, and that 
no reclamation of it should he made at any time, 
on any account. 

“Now, my'dear Camors, do me one favor. To 
tell you my inmost thought, I shall he most happy 
to see you cany into execution your project of 
laudable ambition. My own new position, my age, 
my tastes, and those I perceive in the Marquise, 
claim all my leisure — all my liberty of action. 
Consequently, I desire as soon as possible to present 
you to my generous and faithful constituents, as 
well for the Corps Legislatif as for the General 
Council. You had better make your preliminary 
arrangements as soon as possible. Why should 
you defer it? You are very well cultivated — very 


no 


(JAMORi^. 


capable. Well, let us go ahead — let us coiniiieiice 
at once. What do you say ?” 

“ I should prefer, General, to be more matured ; 
but it would be both folly and ingratitude in me 
not to accede to your kind wish. What shall I do 
first? Let me see.” 

“ Then, my young friend, instead of leaving to- 
morrow for Paris, you must go to your estate at 
Reuilly : go there and conquer Des Rameures.” 

“ And who are Des Rameures, General ?” 

“You do not know the Des Rameures? The 
deuce, no ; you cannot know them ! That is un- 
fortunate, too. Des Rameures is a clever fellow, 
a very clever fellow, and all-powerful in his neigh- 
borhood. lie is an original, as you will see ; and 
with him lives his niece, a charming woman. I tell 
you, my boy, you must please them, for Des Ra- 
meures is the master of the country. 

“ lie ])atronizes me, or else, upon my honor, I 
should remain on the road !” 

“ But, General, what shall I do to please this 
Rameures ?” 

“ You will see him. He is, as I tell you, a great 
oddity. He has not been in Paris since ’25 ; he has 
a horror of Paris and Parisians. Very well, it only 
needs a little tact to flatter his view^s on that point. 
We always need a little tact in this world, young 
man,” 


CAMOnS. 


in 


“ But his niece, Geiienil ?” 

“Al), the deuce! You must please tne niece 
also. He adores her, and she manages him com- 
pletely, although he grumbles a little some- 
times.” 

“ And what sort of woman is she ?” 

“ Oh, a respectable woman — a perfectly respect- 
able woman. A widow ; somewhat a devotee, but 
very well informed. A woman of great merit.” 

- “ But what course must I take to please this 
lady ?” 

“ What course ? By my faith, young man, you 
ask a great many questions. I never yet learned 
to please a woman. I am green as a goose with 
them always. It is a thing I cannot understand ; 
but as for you, my young comrade, you have iittle 
need to be instructed in that matter. You can’t 
fail to please her; you have only to make yourself 
agreeable. But you will know how to do it — you 
will conduct yourself like an angel, I am sure. 

“ Captivate Des Rameures and his niece — these 
are your instructions !” 

Early next morning Camors left the Chateau de 
Campvallon, armed with these imperfect instruc- 
tions ; and, further, with a letter from the General 
to Des Rameures. 

He went in a closed carriage to his own domain 
of Reuilly, which lay ten leagues off, While mak- 


Ji2 


CAMOES. 


inir tliis transit lie considered to liiniself that tlif 
jiatli of ambition was not one of roses ; and that it 
was liard for him, at the outset of his enterprise, to 
encounter two faces as disquieting as those of Pcs 
llameures and his niece. 


CAMORH. 


11 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE OLD DOMAIN OF REUILLY. 

I'liK domain of Renilly consistod of two farms and 
of a liouse of some pretension, inhabited formerly 
by the maternal family of M. de Camors. lie had 
never before seen this property when he reached it on 
tlie evening of a beautiful summer day. A long and 
solemn avenue of elms, interlacing their tliick 
branches, led to the dwelling-house, which was quite 
unequal to the imposing approach to it ; for it was 
but a poor construction of the past century, orna- 
mented simply by a gable and a bull’s-eye, but 
flanked by a lordly dovecote. 

It derived a certain air of dignity from two small 
terraces, one above the other, in front of it, while the 
triple flight of steps was supported by balusters of 
granite. Two animals, which had once, perhaps, 
resembled lions, were placed upon each side the 
balustrade at the platform of the highest teri*ace ; 
and they had been staring there for more than a 
hundred and fifty years. Behind the house stretched 
the garden ; and in its midst, mounted on a stone 
arch, stood a dismal sun-dial with aces of hearts and 
spades painted betw^een its figures ; while the trees 
around it were trimmed into the shapes of confes- 
sionals, chess-pawns, and aninials. To the right, 


114 


C A MORS. 


a, labyrinth of young trees, similarly clipped in 
the fashion of the epoch, led by a thousand devious 
turns to a mysterious valley, where one heard con- 
stantly a low, sad murmur. This proceeded from a 
nymph in terra-cotta, wiiose urn dripped, day and 
night, a thin rill of water into a small fish-j^ond, 
bordered by grand old poplars, whose shadows 
threw u])on its surface, even at mid-day, the black- 
ness of Acheron. 

Camors’ first reflection at viewing this prospect 
was an exceedingly painful one; and the second was 
even more so. 

At another time he would doubtless have taken 
an interest in searching through these, souvenirs of 
the past for traces of an infant nurtured there, who 
had a mother, and who had perhaps loved these old 
relics But his system did not admit of sentiment, 
so he crushed the ideas that crowded to his mind, 
. ind, after a rapid glance around him, called for his 
dinner. 

The old steward and his wife — who for thirty 
years had been the sole inhabitants of Reuilly — had 
been informed of his coming. They had spent the 
day in cleaning and airing the house ; an operation 
which added to the discomfort they sought to re- 
move, and irritated the old residents of the w'alls 
while it disturbed the sleep of hoary spiders in their 
dusty webs. A mixed perfume of the cellar, of the 
sepulchre, and of old coach, struck Camors when he 
penetrated into the principal room, where his dinner 
was to be served. 


C AMO ns. 


115 


Taking up one of two flickering candles, the like 
of which he had never before seen, Camors pro- 
ceeded to inspect the quaint portraits of his ances- 
tors, who seemed to stare at him from their cracked 
canvas in great surprise. They were a dilapidated 
set of old noblesse., one having lost a nose, anothei 
an arm, others again sections of their faces. One of 
them — a chevalier of St. Louis — had received a 
bayonet thrust through his cross in the riotous times 
of the Revolution ; but he still smiled at Camors, 
and snufled at a flower, despite the daylight shining 
through him. 

Camors finished his inspection, thinking to him- 
self they were a highly respectable set of old folks and 
not worth fifteen francs apiece. The housekeeper had 
passed half the previous night in slaughtering various 
dwellers in the poultry-yard ; and tlie results of the 
massacre now successively appeared, swimming in 
butter. Happily, however, the fatherly kindness of 
the General had despatched a hamper of provisions 
from Campvallon, and a few slices of pate., washed 
down by sundry glasses of Ghdteau- Yquem hel})ed 
the Count to combat the dreary sadness with wliicli 
his change of residence, solitude, the night, and tlie 
smoke of his candles, all conspired to oppress him. 

Regaining his usual good spirits, which had de- 
serted him for a moment, he tried to draw out the 
old steward, who was waiting on him. lie strove 
to glean from him some information of the Des Ra- 
meures; but the old servant, like every Norman 
peasant, held it as a tenet of faith that li« who gave 


116 


C AMORS. 


a plain answer to any question was a dishonored 
man. With all possible respect he let Camors un- 
derstand plainly that he was not to be deceived by 
his aftected ignorance into any belief that M. le 
Comte did not know a great deal better than he who 
and what M. des Rameures was — where he lived, 
and what he did : that M. le Comte was his master, 
and as such was entitled to his respect, but that he 
was nevertheless a Parisian, and — as M. des Ra- 
meures said — all Parisians were jesters. 

Camors, who had taken an oath never to get 
angry, kept it now ; drew from the General’s old 
Cognac a fi*esh supply of patience, lit a cigar, and 
left the room. 

For a few moments he leant over the balustrade 
of the terrace and looked around. The night, clear 
and beautiful, enveloped in its shadowy veil the 
wide-stretching fields, and a solemn stillness, strange 
to Parisian ears, reigned around him, broken only at 
intervals by the distant bay of a hound, rising sud- 
denly, and anon dying into peace again. His eyes 
becoming accustomed to the darkness, Camors de- 
scended the terrace stairs and passed into the old 
avenue, which was darker and more solemn than a 
cathedral-aisle at midnight, andwthence into an open 
road into which it led him by chance. 

Strictly speaking, Camors had never, until now, 
been out of Paris ; for wherever he had previously 
gone, he had carried its bustle, worldly and arti- 
ficial life, play, and the races with him; and the 
watering-places and the sea-side had never shown 


QAMORS. 


ll*/ 

him true country, or provincial life. It gave him a 
sensation for the first time ; — but the sensation was 
an odious one. 

As he advanced up this silent road, without resi- 
dences, withoiwt lights, it seemed to him he was wan 
dering among the desolate sites of some lunar region. 
This part of Normandy recalled to him the worst 
cultivated parts of Brittany. It wore a rustic and 
savage character, with its dense shrubbery, tufted 
grass, dark valleys, and rough roads. 

Some dreamers love this sweet, but severe nature, 
even in its nightly aspect; they love the very things 
that grated most upon the pampered senses of Ca- 
mors, who strode on in deep disgust, flattering him- 
self, however, he would soon reach the Boulevard de 
Madelaine. But he found, instead, peasants’ huts 
scattered along the side of the road, their low, mossy 
roofs seeming to spring from the rich soil like an 
enormous fungus growth. Two or three of the 
dwellers in these huts were taking the fresh evening 
air on their doorsills, and Camors could distinguish 
through the gloom their heavy figures and limbs, 
i-oughened by coarse toil in the fields, as they stood 
mute, motionless, and ruminating in the darkness 
like tired beasts. 

Camors, like all men possessed by a dominant 
idea, had, ever since he adopted the religion of liis 
father as his rule of life, taken the pains to analyze 
every impression and every thought. He now said 
to himself, that between these countrymen and a re- 
fined man like himself, there was doubtless a greater 


118 


CAMORS. 


difference than between them and their beasts ol 
burden ; and this reflection was as balm to the 
scornful aristocracy that was the corner-stone of his 
theory. Wandering on to an eminence, his dis- 
couraged eye swept but a fresh horizon of apple- 
trees and heads of ^barley, and he was about to turn 
back when a strange sound suddenly arrested his 
steps. It was a concert of voice and instruments, 
which in this lost solitude seemed to him only a 
dream, or a miracle. The music was good — even 
excellent. He recognized a Prelude of Bach, ar- 
ranged by Gunod. Hobiiison Crusoe, on discover- 
ing the footprint in the sand, was not more aston- 
ished than Camors at finding in this desert so lively 
a symptom of civilization. 

Filled with curiosity and led by the melody he 
heard, he descended cautiously the little hill, like a 
king’s son in search of the enchanted princess. The 
palace he found in the middle of the path, in the 
shape of a high back wall of a dwelling, fronting on 
another road. One of the upper windows on this 
side, however, was open; a bright light streamed 
from it, and thence he doubted not the sweet sounds 
came. 

With an accompaniment of the piano and stringed 
instruments rose a fresh, flexible woman’s voice, 
chanting the mystic words of the young master . 
with such expression and power as would have given 
even him delight. Camors, himself a musician, wa.s 
capable of appreciating the masterly execution of 
the piece ; and was so nnicli struck by it he felt an 


CAMORS. 


119 


irresistible desire to see the performers, esoecially 
the singer. With this impulse he climbed the little 
hedge bordering the road, placed himself on the top, 
and found himself several feet above the level of the 
lighted window. He did not hesitate to use his skill 
as a gymnast to raise himself to one of the branches 
of an old oak stretching across the lawn ; but during 
the ascent he could not disguise from himself that 
his was scarcely a dignified position for the future 
deputy of the district. He almost laughed aloud at 
the idea of being surprised in this position by the 
terrible Des Rameures, or his niece. 

He established himself on a large, leafy branch, 
directly in front of the interesting window; and 
notwithstanding that he was at a respectful distance, 
his glance could readily penetrate into the chamber 
where the concert was taking place. A dozen per- 
sons, as he judged, were there assembled ; several 
women, of different ages, were seated at a table 
working; a young man appeared to be drawing; 
while several persons lounged on comfortable seats 
around the room. About the piano was a group 
which chiefly attracted the attention of the young 
(Jount. At the instrument was gravely seated a 
young girl of some twelve years; immediately be- 
hind her stood an old man, remarkable for his im- 
mense height — his head bald, with a crown of white 
hair, and bushy, black eyebrows. He played the 
violin with priestly dignity. Seated near him was 
a man of about fifty, in the dress of an ecclesiastic, 
and wearing a huge pair of silver-rimmed spectacles, 


120 


C AMORS. 


wlio played the violoncello with great apparent 
gusto. 

Between them stood the singer. She was a pale 
brunette, slight and graceful, and not apparently 
more than twenty-five years of age. The somewhat 
severe oval of her face was relieved by a bright j)air 
of black eyes that seemed to grow larger as she sang. 
One hand rested gently on the shoulder of the girl 
at the piano, and with this she seemed to keej) time, 
pressing gently on the shoulder of the performer to 
stimulate her zeal. And that hand was delicious ! 

The hymn of Palestrina had succeeded the Prelude 
of Bach. It was a quartette, to which two new 
voices lent their aid. The old priest laid aside his 
violoncello, stood up, took off his glasses, and his 
deep bass completed the full measure of the melody. 

After the quartette followed a few moments of 
general conversation, during which — after embracing 
the child pianist, who immediately left the room — 
the songstress walked to the window. She leaned 
out as if to breathe the fresh air, and her profile was 
sharply relieved against the bright light behind lu'r, 
in which the others formed a group around the })riest, 
who once more donned his specs, and drew from his 
pocket what seemed to be a manuscript. 

The lady leaned from the window, gently fanning 
herself as she looked now at the sky, now at the 
dark landscape. Camors imagined he could distin- 
guish her gentle breathing above the sound of the 
fan ; and leaning eagerly forward for a better view, 
he caused the leaves to rustle slightly. She started 


CAMORS. 


121 


at the sound, then remained immovahle, and the fixed 
position of her head showed that her gaze was fast- 
ened upon the otlk in which he was concealed. 

He felt the full awkwardness of his position, hut 
could not judge whether or not he was visible to her ; 
hut, under the danger of her fixed regard, he passed 
the most painful moments of his life. 

She turned into the room and said, in a calm voice, 
a few words which brought three or four of her 
friends to the window; and among them Camors 
recognized the old man with the violin. 

The moment was a trying one. He could do 
nothing but lie still in his leafy retreat — silent and 
immovable as a statue. The conduct of those at 
the window went far to reassure him, for their eyes 
wandered over the gloom with evident uncertainty, 
convincing him he was but suspected — not dis- 
covered. But they exchanged animated observa- 
tions, to which the hidden Count lent an attentive 
ear. Suddenly a strong voice — which he recog- 
nized as belonging to him of the violin — rose over 
them all in the pleasing order, “ Loosen the dog !” 

This was sufficient for Camors. He was not a 
coward ; he would not have budged an inch before 
■an enraged tiger; but he would have travelled a hun- 
dred miles on foot to avoid the shadow of ridicule. 
Profiting by the warning and .a moment when he 
seemed unobserved, he slid from the tree, jumped 
into the next field, and entered the wood at a point 
somewhat farther down than where he had scaled 
the hedge. This done, he resumed his walk with 


122 


C AMORS. 


the assured tread of a man who had a riglit to he 
there. He had gone but a few steps, when he heard 
behind him the wild barking oC-tlie dog, which 
proved his retreat had been an opportune one. 

Some of the peasants he had noticed as he passed 
before, were still standing at their doors. Stopping 
before one of them, he asked ; 

“ My friend, to whom does that large liouse below 
there, facing the other road, belong? and whence 
comes that music ?” 

“You probably know that as well as I,” replied 
the man stolidly. 

“ Had I known, I should scarcely have asked you,” 
said Camors. 

The peasant did not deign farther reply. His wife 
stood near him ; and Camors had remarked that in 
all classes of society women have more wit and 
good-humor than their husbands. Therefore he 
turned to her and said : 

“ You see, my good woman, I am a stranger here. 
To whom does that house belong ? Probably to M. 
des Rameures ?” 

“No, no,” replied the woman, “M. des Rameures 
Hves much farther on.” 

“ Ah ! Then who lives here ?” 

“ Why, Monsieur de Tecle, of course !” 

“ Ah, Monsieur de T6cle ! But tell me, he does 
not live alone ? There is a lady who sings — his 
wife ? — his sister ? Who is she ?” 

“Ah, that is his daughter-in-law, Madame de 
Teele — Madame Elise, who — ” 


C AMORS. 


123 


“ Ah ! tliank yon, thank you, my good woman ! 
You have children ? Buy them sabots with this,’' 
and dropping a gold piece in the lap of the obliging 
peasant, Camors walked rapidly away. Returning 
home the road seemed less gloomy and far shorter 
than when he came. As he strode on, humming the 
prelude of Bach, the moon rose, the country looked 
more beautiful, and, in short, when he perceived, at 
the end of its ever gloomy avenue, his chateau 
bathed in the white light, he found the spectacle 
rather enjoyable than otherwise. And when he 
once more ensconced himself in the maternal domi- 
cile, and breathed the odor of damp paper and 
mouldy trees that constituted its atmos})here, he 
found great consolation in the reflection that there 
existed not very far away from him a young woman 
who possessed a charming face, a delicious voice, and 
a pretty name. 

Next morning, after plunging into a cold bath, to 
the profound astonishment of the old steward and 
his wife, the Count de Camors went to inspect his 
farms. He found the buildings very similar in con- 
struction to the dams of beavers, though far less 
comfortable ; but he was amazed to hear his farmers 
arguing, in their patois., on the various modes of 
culture and crops, like men who were no strangers 
to all modern improvements in agriculture. The 
name of Des Rameures frequently occurred in the 
conversation as confirmation of their own theories, 
or experiments. M. des Rameures gave preference 
to this manure, to this machine for winnowing ; this 


124 


CAMORS. 


Dreed of animals was introduced by liini. M. dcs 
Ivarneures did this, M. des Ivanieures did that, and 
the farmers did like him, and found it to their ad- 
vantage. Camors found the General had not exag- 
gerated the local importance of this personage, and 
that it was most essential to conciliate him. lie- 
solving therefore to call on him during the day, he 
meanwhile went to breakfast. 

This duty toward himself fulfilled, the young 
Count lounged on the terrace, as he had the evening 
before, and commenced smoking. Though it was 
near mid-day, it was doubtful to him if the solitude 
and silence appeared less complete and o}){)ressive 
than on the preceding night. A hushed cackling of 
fowls, the drowsy hum of bees, and the mufilcd 
chime of a distant bell — these were all. 

Camors lounged on the terrace, dreaming of his 
club, of the noisy crowd, of the rumbling omni- 
buses,. of the playbill of the little Kiosk, of the 
scent of heated asphalt — and the memory of tin; 
least of these enchantments brought infinite peace 
to his soul. The inhabitant of Paris has one great 
blessing, which he does not take into account until 
he suffers from its loss — one great half of his exist- 
ence is filled up without the least trouble to himself 
The all-potent vitality which ceaselessly envelops 
him takes away in a vast degree the exertion of 
amusing himself The roar of the city, rising like 
a great bass around liim, fills up the gaps in his 
thoughts, and never leaves that disagreeable sensa- 
tion —a void. 


CAM0R8. 


125 


There is no Pansian who is not happy in tho 
belief that he makes all the noise he hears, writes all 
the books he rejids, edits all the journals on which 
he breakfasts, writes all the vaudevilles on which 
he sups, and invents all the hon-mots he repeats. 

But this flattering illusion vanishes the moment 
chance takes him a mile away from the rae Vimemie, 
The proof confounds him, for he is bored terribly, 
and becomes sick of himself. Perhaps his secret 
soul, weakened and unnerved, may even be assailed 
by the suspicion that he is a feeble human creature 
after all ! But no ! He returns to Paris ; the col- 
lective electricity again inspires him ; he rebounds ; 
he recovers ; he is busy, spiritual, active once more, 
and recognizes once more, to his intense satisfaction, 
that he is after all one of the elect of God’s crea- 
tures — momentarily degraded, it may be, by con- 
tact with the inferior beings who people the depart- 
ments. 

Now Camors had within himself more resources 
than most men to conquer the blue-devils; but in 
these early hours of his experience in country life, 
deprived of his Club, his horses, and his cook, ban- 
ished from all his old haunts and habits, he began to 
feel terribly the weight of time. It, therefore, ap- 
proached a delicious sensation for him to suddenly 
hear that regularly recurring beat upon the road, 
which to his trained ear announced the approach of 
several riding-horses. Next moment he saw ad- 
vancing up his sombre avenue two ladies on horse- 
back, followed by a groom with a black cockade. 


126 


CAMORS. 


Tliough quite amazed at this charming spectacle, 
Camors remembered his duty as a gentleman and 
descended the steps of the terrace. But tlie two 
ladies, at sight of him, appeared equally surprised 
as himself, suddenly drew rein and conferred hastily 
together. Then recovering, they continued their 
course, traversed the lower court below the terraces, 
and disappeared in the direction of the little lake, 
that resembled Acheron. 

As they passed the lower balustrade Camors 
bowed low, and they returned his salutation by a 
slight inclination; but he was quite sure, in spite of 
the veils that floated from their riding-hats, that 
he recognized the black-eyed singer and the young 
pianist. After a moment he called to his old 
steward : 

“Monsieur Leonard,” he said, “is this a public 
way ?” 

“ It certainly is not a public way, M. le Comte,” re- 
plied Leonard. 

“ Then what do these ladies mean by usina: this 
road?” 

“ Bless me ! M. le Comte, it is so long since any of 
the owners have been to Reuilly ! These ladies 
mean no harm by passing through your woods; and 
sometimes they even stop at the chateau while my 
wife gives them fresh milk. Shall I tell them that 
this displeases M. le Comte ?” 

“ My good Leonard, why the deuce do you sup- 
pose it displeases me? I only asked for information. 
And now who are the ladies ?” 


a A MORS. 121 

“ Oh ! Monsieur, they are quite respectable ladies ; 
Mde. de Tecle, and her daughter, Mile. Marie. 

“So? and the husband of Madame, Monsieur de. 
Tticle, never rides out with them?^ 

“ Heavens ! no. Monsieur. lie never rides with 
them.” And the old steward smiled a dry smile. 
“ He has been among the dead men for a long time, 
as M. le Comte well knows.” 

“Granting that I know it. Monsieur Leonard, I 
wish it understood these ladies are not to be inter- 
fered with. You comprehend?” 

Leonard seemed pleased that he was not to be the 
bearer of so disagreeable a message ; and Camors, 
suddenly conceiving that his stay at Reuilly would 
be prolonged for some time in all likelihood, re- 
entered the chateau and examined the different 
rooms, arranging with the steward the best [)lan of 
making the house habitable. The little town of L., 
but two leagues off, afforded all the nieanr,, and M. 
Leonai'd proposed going there at once to- cccfer with 
the ai-cliitect. 


128 


ryAM0R8 


CHAPTER VII. 

ELISE DE TECI.E. 

Meantime Camors directed liis 8te})S toward llie 
residence of M. des Ranieures, of wliicli he at last ob- 
tained correct information. He took the same road 
as 'the preceding evening, passed the monastic look- 
ing building that held Mde. de Tecle, glanced his 
eye at the old oak that had served him for an obser- 
vatory, and about a kilometre farther on discovered 
the small house with towers, which he sought. 

It could only be compared to those imaginary edi- 
fices of which we have all read in childhood’s hap]»y 
days in this taking text, under an attractive picture : 
“The castle of M. de Valmont was agreeably situ- 
ated at the summit of a pretty hill.” It had a really 
pretty surrounding of fields sloping away, green as 
emerald, dotted here and there with great bouquets 
of trees, or cut by walks adorned with huge roses or 
white bridges thrown over rivulets. Cattle and 
sheep were resting about, which might have figured 
at the Ojyera Comique^ so shining were the skins of 
ihe cow^s aiid so white the wool of. the sheep. Ca- 
mors swung open the gate, took the first road he 
saw, and reached the top of the hill amid trees and 
(1 covers. An old servant slept on a bench before 


CAM on s. 


129 


the door, in liis dn'iims at those pretty tilings 

about him. ^ 

<!^amors waked him, inquii’e<l for the master of the 
liouse, and was ushered into a vestibule. Thence he 
entered a charming apartment, where a young lady 
in a short dress and round hat was arranging bou- 
quets in Chinese vases. 

She turned at the noise of the opening door, and 
Camors saw — Madame de T^cle ! 

As he saluted her with an air of astonishment and 
doubt, she looked fixedly at him with her great eyes. 
He spoke first, with more of hesitation than usual. 

“Pardon me, Madame, but I inquired for M. des 
Rameures.” 

“He is at the farm, but will soon return. Be 
kind enough to wait.” 

She pointed him to a chair, and seated herself, 
pushing away with her foot the branches that 
strewed the floor. 

“ But, Madame, in the absence of M. des Rameure? 
can I have the honor of speaking with his niece ?” 

The shadow of a smile flitted over Mde. de Tecle’s 
brown Imt charming face. “ His niece ?” she said : 
“ I am his niece.” 

^^Yon! Pardon me, Madame, but I thought — 
•Jiey said — I expected to find an elderly — a — person 
—that is a respectable — ” he hesitated, then added 
simply — “ and I find I am in error.” 

Mde. de Tecle s(*emed completely unmoved by 
this compliment. 

“Will you be kind enough. Monsieur,” she said, 


132 


C AMO ns. 


[)roved irresistible, and with one spring into the 
midst of the corn, she essayed to reach the prize, if 
Providence would permit. Madame de Tecle, how- 
ever, would not permit. She seemed much dis- 
[)leased, and said sharply: 

“ Marie, my child ! In the midst of tlie corn ! 
Are you crazy !” 

The child returned promptly to the path, bnt un- 
able to conquer her wish for the apple, turned an im- 
ploring eye to Camors and said softly — “ Pardon, 
Monsieur, but that apple would make my boiujuet 
complete.” 

Camors had only to reach up, stretch out his hand 
and detach the branch from the tree. 

“A thousand thanks !” cried the child, and adding 
tliis crowning glory to her bouquet, she placed the 
whole in the ribbon of her hat and walked on with 
an air of proud satisfaction. 

As they approached the fence which ran at the 
end of the field, Mde. de Tecle suddenly said — “ My 
uncle, Monsieur and Camors, raising his head, saw 
a very tall man looking at them over the fence and 
shading his eyes with his hand. His robust limbs 
were clad in gaiters of yellow leather with steel but- 
tons, and he wore a loose coat of maroon-velvet and 
a soft felt hat. Camors immediately recognized the 
white hair and heavy black eyebrows as the same he 
had seen bending over the violin the night before. 

“ My uncle,” said Mde. de Tecle, introducing the 
yonng Count by a wave of the liand • “This is M. 
de Camors.” 


CAM0R8 


1 r?:’ 

“M. (Ic Camors,” repeated the old man, in a deep • 
and sonorous voice, “ you are most welcome and 
opening the gate he gave his guest a soft, brown 
hand, as he continued : “ I knew your mother inti- 
mately, and am charmed to have her son under my 
roof. Your mother was a most amiable person, 
young sir, and certainly merited — ” The old 

man hesitated, and finished his sentence by a sono- 
rous “ hem !” that resounded and rumbled in his 
chest as if in the vault of a church. 

Then he took the letter Camors handed him, held 
it at a long distance from his eyes, and began read- 
ing it. The General had told the Count it would be 
impolitic to break suddenly to M. des Rameures the 
plan they had concocted. The latter, therefore, 
found the note only a very warm introduction of 
Camors. The postscript gave him the announce- 
ment of the marriage. 

“ The devil !” he cried. “ Did you know this, my 
niece ? Campvallon is to be married !” 

All women, widows, matrons, or maids, are deeply 
interested in all matters pertaining to all marriages. 

“ Wliat, uncle ! The General ! Can it be ? Are 
you sure ?” 

“ Um — rather. He writes the news himself. Do 
you know the lady, M. le Comte?” 

“ Mile, de Luc d’Estrelles is my cousin,” Camors 
replied. 

“ Aha ! That is right ; and she is a lady of a cer- 
tain age?” 

‘‘She is a lady of twenty-five.” 


132 


VAMOm^. 


jH’oved irresistible, and with one spring into tlie 
midst of the corn, she essayed to reach the prize, if 
Providence would permit. Madame de Tecle, how- 
ever, would not permit. She seemed much dis- 
[)leased, and said sharply : 

“ Marie, my child ! In the midst of the corn ! 
Are you crazy !” 

The child returned promptly to the path, but un- 
able to conquer her wish for the apple, turned an im- 
ploring eye to Oamors and said softly — “ Pardon, 
Monsieur, but that apple would make my bouquet 
complete.” 

Camors had only to reach up, stretch out his hand 
and detach the branch from tlie tree. 

“A thousand thanks !” cried the child, and adding 
tliis crowning glory to her bouquet, she placed the 
whole in the ribbon of her hat and walked on with 
an air of proud satisfaction. 

As they approached the fence which ran at tlie 
end of the field, Mde. de Tecle suddenly said — “ My 
uncle, Monsieur;” and Camors, raising his head, saw 
a very tall man looking at them over the fence and 
shading his eyes with his hand. His robust limbs 
were clad in gaiters of yellow leather Avith steel but- 
tons, and he wore a loose coat of maroon-velvet and 
a soft felt hat. Camors innuediately recognized tlie 
white hair and heavy black eyebrows as the same he 
liad seen bending over the violin the night before. 

“ My uncle,” said Mde. de Tech*, intro<lucing the 
young Count l)y a wave of tlie liand • “Tliis is M. 
de Camors.” 


CAMORS 


1 H)’ 

“M. (Ic Camors,” repeated tke old man, in a deep • 
and sonorous voice, “ you are most welcome and 
opening the gate he gave his guest a soft, brown 
hand, as he continued: “ I knew your mother inti- 
mately, and am charmed to have her son under my 
roof. Your mother was a most amiable person, 
young sir, and certainly merited — ” The old 

man hesitated, and finished his sentence by a sono- 
rous “ hem !” that resounded and rumbled in his 
chest as if in the vault of a church. 

Then he took the letter Camors handed him, held 
it at a long distance from his eyes, and began read- 
ing it. The General had told the Count it would be 
impolitic to break suddenly to M. des Rameures tlie 
plan they had concocted. The latter, therefore, 
found the note only a very warm introduction of 
Camors. The postscript gave him the announce- 
ment of the marriage. 

“ The devil !” he cried. “ Did you know this, my 
niece ? Campvallon is to be married !” 

All women, widows, matrons, or maids, are deeply 
interested in all matters pertaining to all marriages. 

“ What, uncle ! The General ! Can it be ? Are 
you sure ?” 

“ Um — rather. He writes the neAVS himself. Do 
you know the lady, M. le Comte ?” 

“ Mile, de Luc d’Estrelles is my cousin,” Camors 
replied. 

“ Aha ! That is right ; and she is a lady of a cer- 
tain age ?” 

‘‘She is a lady of twenty-five.” 


l34 


CAMORS. 


M. des Rameures jeceived this intelligence with 
one of the resonant hems peculiar to him. 

“Mav I ask, without indiscretion, if she is eii- 
dowed witn a pleasing person ?” 

“ She is exceedingly beautiful,” was the reply. 

“ Hem ! So much the better. It seems to me the 
General is a little old for her ; but every one is the 
best judge of his own affairs. Hem ! the best judge 
of his own affairs. Elise, my dear, whenever you 
are ready we will follow you. Pardon me, M. le 
Comte, for receiving you in this rustic attire, but I 
am a laborer. Agricola — a mere herdsman — custos 
gregis, as the poet says. Walk before me, M. le 
Comte, I beg you. Marie, child, respect my corn ! 

“ And can we hope, M. de Camors, that you have 
the happy idea of quitting the great Babylon to 
instal yourself upon your rural possessions? It will 
be a good example. Sir — an excellent example ! For 
unhappily to-day more than ever we can say with 
the poet : 

‘ Non ullus aratro 

Dignus honos ; sqnalent abductis arva colonis, 

Et— et— ’ 

“ And, by gracious ! I’ve forgotten the rest — poor 
memory ! Ah, young sir, never get old — never get 
old !” 


“ ‘ Et curvae rigidum falces conflantur in ensem,’ ” 

said Camors, continuing the broken quotation. 

“ Aha ! you quote Virgil. You read the classics. 


C A MORS. 


135 


I am cliarmed, really charmed. That is not the 
fault of our rising generation, for those stupids have 
an idea it is bad taste to quote the ancients. Ibit 
that is not my idea, young sir — not in the least 
Our fathers quoted freely because they were familiar 
with them. And Virgil is my poet. Not that 1 
approve of all his theories of cultivation. With all 
the respect I accord him, there is a great deal to l)e 
said on that point; and his plan of breeding in jtar- 
ticular will never do — never do ! Still, he is deli- 
cious, eh? Very well, M. Camors, now you see my 
little domain — mea paupera regna — the retreat of 
the sage. Here I live, and live happily, like an old 
shepherd in the golden age — loved by my neighbors, 
which is not easy; and venerating the gods, which 
is perhaps easier. Ah, young sir, as you read Vir- 
gil, you will excuse me once more. It was for me 
he wrote : 

‘ Fortunate seuex, liic inter flumina nota, 

Et fontes sacros frigus captabit opacum.’ 

And this as well : 

‘ Fortimatns et ille deos qui novit agrestes, 

Panaque, Silvanumqne senem !’ ” 

“ Nyinphasque sororesP^ finished Camors, smiling 
and moving his head slightly in the direction of 
Mde. de Tecle and her daughter, who preceded 

them. 


130 


C AMORS. 


“Quite to the point. Tliat is ])ure truth !” cried 
M. des Rameures, gayly. “Did you liear that, 
niece V 

“ Yes, uncle.” 

“ And did you understand it, niece ?” 

“No, uncle.” 

“ I do pot believe you, my dear ! I do not believe 
you !” The old man laughed heartily. “ Do not 
believe her, M. de Camors; women have the faculty 
of understanding compliments in every language.” 

This conversation brought them to the chateau, 
wliere they sat down on a bench before the drawing- 
room to enjoy the view. 

Camors praised judiciously the well-kept park, 
accepted an invitation to dinner the next week, and 
then discreetly retired, flattering himself that his 
introduction had made a favorable impression upon 
M. des Rameures, but regretting his apparent want 
of ])rogress with the fairy-footed niece. 

lie was in error. 

“This youth,” said M. des Rameures, when he 
was left alone with Mde. de Tecle, “has some toucb 
of tlie ancients, which is something; but he still 
r(‘sembles his father, who was vicious as sin itself, 
llis eyes and his smile recall some traits of his 
admirable mother; but positively, my dear Elise, he 
is tlie portrait of his father, whose manners and 
whose principles they say he has inherited.” 

“Who says so, uncle ?” 

“ Current Rumor, niece.” 

“ Current Rumor, my dear uncle, is often mistaken, 


CAMORS. 


137 


and always exaggerates. For my part, I like tlie 
young man, who seems thoroughly refined and at 
his ease.” 

“ Bah ! I suppose because he compared you to a 
nymph in the fable.” 

“ If he compared me to a nymph in the fable he 
was wrong ; but he never addressed me a word in 
French that was not in good taste. Before we con- 
demn him, uncle, let us see for ourselves. It is a 
liabit you have always recommended to me, you 
know.” 

“You cannot deny, niece,” said the old man with 
irritation, “that he exhales the most decided and 
disagreeable odor of Paris ! He is too polite — too 
studied! Not the shadow of enthusiasm — no fire 
of youth ! He never lauglis as I should wish to see 
a man of his age laugh ; a young man should roar to 
split liis waistband !” 

“ Wliat ! you would see him merry so soon after 
losing liis fiitlier in such a tragic manner, and lie 
himself nearly ruined ! Why, uncle, what can you 
mean ?” 

“ Well, well, perhaps you are right. I retract all 
I have said against him. If he be half ruined I will 
otter him my advice — and my purse if he need it — 
for the sake of the memory of his mother, whom 
you resemble. Ah, ’tis thus we end all our disputes, 
naughty child ! I grumble ; I am passionate ; I act 
like a Tartar. Tlien you speak with your good sense 
and sweetness, my darling, and the tiger becomes a 


188 


6AM0RS. 


lamb. All the unhappy whom you approach in the 
same way submit to your subtle charm. And that 
is the reason why my old friend, La Fontaine, said 
of you — 

‘ Siir differcnts fleurs fabeillc se repose, 

Et fait du micl dc foutc chose 1’ ” 


CAMORS. 


139 


CHAPTER VIll. 

FRENCH COUNTRY LIFE, AND A DISH OF POLITICS. 

Elise de Tecle was thirty years of age, but 
seemingly much younger. At seventeen she had 
married, under peculiar circumstances, her cousin 
Roland de Tecle. She had been left an orphan at 
an early age and educated by her mother’s brother, 
M. des Rameures. Roland lived very near her fa- 
ther’s. Everything brought them together — the 
wishes of the family, compatibility of fortune, their 
relations as neighbors, and a personal symjiathy. 
TJiey were both charming; they were destined for 
each other from infancy, and the time fixed for their 
marriage was the nineteenth birthday of Elise. In 
anticipation of this happy event the Count de Tecle 
rebuilt almost entirely one wing of his castle for the 
exclusive use of the young couple. Roland was 
constantly present, superintending and urging on th« 
work with all the ardor of a lover. 

One morning loud and alarming cries from the 
new wing roused all the inhabitants of the castle ; 
the Count hurried to the spot, and found his son 
stunned and bleeding in the arms of one of the work- 
men. He had fallen from a high scafiblding to the 


uo 


GAMORS. 


pavement. For several months tlie unfortunate 
young man hovered between life and deatli ; but in 
the paroxysms of fever he never ceased calling for 
his cousin — his betrothed; and they were obliged tc 
admit the young girl to his bedside. Slowly he re- 
covered, but was ever after disfigured and lame ; and 
the first time they allowed hirn to look in a glass he 
had a fainting fit that proved almost fatal. 

But he was a youth of high principle and true 
courage. On recovering from his faint he wej)t a 
fiood of bitter tears, which could not, however, wasli 
the scars from his disfigured face. He prayed long 
and earnestly; then shut himself up with his father. 
Both of them commenced writing — one to M. des 
Rameures, the other to Elise. M. des Rameures and 
his niece were then in Germany. The excitement 
and fatigue consequent upon nursing her cousin had 
so broken her health that the physicians urged a trial 
of the baths of Ems. There she received these let- 
tei'S ; and they freely released her from her engage- 
ments and gave her absolute liberty. 

Roland and his father implored her not to return 
in haste, explained that their intention was to lea\ e 
the country in a few weeks’ time and establish tliem- 
selves at Paris; and added that they did not expect 
any answer, and that their resolution — impelled by 
simple justice to her — was irrevocable. 

Their wishes were complied with. No answer came. 

Roland, his sacrifice once made, seemed calm and 
resigned ; but he fell into a sort of languor, which 
made fearful progress and hinted at a speedy and 


a AMORS. 


141 


fetal termination, whieli in fact he seemed to long 
for. One evening they had taken him to the lime- 
tree terrace at the foot of the garden. He gazed 
with absent eye on the tints with which the setting 
sun purpled the glades of the wood, while his father 
paced the terrace with long strides — smiling as he 
passed him and hastily brushing away a tear as he 
turned his back. 

Suddenly Elise de T^cle appeared before them, 
like an angel dropped from heaven. She knelt down 
before the crippled youth, kissed his hand, and, 
brightening him with the rays of her beautiful eyes, 
told him she never had loved hini'Ealf so well be- 
fore. He felt she spoke truly; he accepted her de- 
votion, and they were married soon after. 

Mde. de Tecle was happy — but she alone was so. 
Her husband, notwithstanding the tenderness with 
wliich she treated him — notwithstanding the happi- 
ness which he could not fail to read in her tranquil 
glance — notwithstanding the birth of a daughter — 
seemed never to console himself. Even with her he 
was always possessed by a cold constraint ; some 
seci*et sorrow consumed him, of which they only 
found the key at the day of his death. 

“ ]\[y darling,” he then said to his young wife — “ my 
darling, may God reward you for your infinite good- 
ness ! Pardon me, if I have never told you how 
entirely I love you. With a face like mine, how 
could I speak of love to one like you ! But my poor 
heart has been brimming over with it all the while. 
Oh, Elise ! how I have suffered when I thought of 


142 


GAMORS. 


what I was before — how much more worthy of you ! 
But we shall be reunited, dearest — shall we not ? — 
where I will be as beautiful as you, and where I may 
tell you how much I adore you ! Do not weep for 
me, my own Elise ! I am happy now, for the first 
time, for I have dared to open my heart to you. 
Dying men do not fear ridicule. Farewell, Elise — ■ 
darling — wife ! I love you !” These loving words 
were his last. 

After her husband’s death, Mde. de Tecle lived 
with her father-in-law, but passed much of her time 
with her uncle. She busied herself with the greatest 
solicitude in the education of her daughter, and kept 
house for both the old men, by both of whom she 
was equally idolized. 

From the lips of the priest at lleuilly, whom he 
called on next day, Camors received a portion of 
these details, while the old man practised the vio- 
loncello with his heavy spectacles on his nose. Spite 
of his fixed resolution of universal scorn, Camors 
could not resist a vague feeling of respect for Mde. 
de Tecle ; it did not entirely eradicate the impure 
sentiment he was disposed to dedicate to her. Fully 
determined, if not his victim, to make her at least 
his ally, he felt that this enterprise was one of un- 
usual difiiculty. But he was energetic, and did not 
object to difficulties — especially when they took 
such charming shape as in the present instance. 

His meditations on this theme occupied him agree- 
ably the rest of that week, during whicli time he 
overlooked his workmen and conferred with his 


VAMOnS. 


143 


architect. Besides, his horses, his books. Ins domes- 
tics, and his journals successively arrived to dispel 
ennui. Therefore he looked remarkably well when 
he jumped out of his dog-cart the ensuing Monday 
in front of M. des Rameures’ door and under the 
eyes of Mde. de Tecle. As the latter gently stroked 
with her white hand the black and smoking shoulder 
of Fitz-Aymon (by Black Prince out of Anna Belle), 
Camors was for the first time presented to the Count 
de Tecle, a quiet, sad, and taciturn old gentleman. 
The Cure, the Sub-Prefect of the district and his 
lady, the Tax-Collector, the family physician, and 
the tutor completed, as the journals say, the list of 
the guests. 

During dinner Camors, secretly excited by the 
immediate vicinity of Mde. de Tecle, essayed to 
• triumph over that hostility that the presence of a 
stranger invariably excites in the midst of intimacies 
which it disturbs. Ilis calm superiority asserted 
itself so mildly it was pardoned for its grace. With- 
out a gayety unbecoming his mourning, he never- 
theless had such lively sallies and such amusing 
jokes of his first mishaps at Reuilly as to break up 
the stiflhess of the party. lie conversed pleasantly 
with each one in turn, and seeming to take the deep- 
est interest in his affairs, put him at once at his 
ease. 

He skilfully gave M. des Rameures the opportu- 
nity for several happy quotations ; spoke naturally to 
him of artificial pastures, and artificially of natural 
pastui-es ; of breeding and of non-breeding cows ; of 


144 


V AMORS. 


JJisliley-slieep — and of a huiidiod otlicr matters lie 
had that morning crammed from an old encyclo- 
paedia and a county almanac. 

To Mde. de Tecle directly he spoke little, but he 
did not speak one word during the dinner that was 
not meant for her; and his manner to women was 
so caressing, yet so chivalric, as to persuade them, 
even while pouring out their wine, that he was 
ready to die for them. The dear charmers thought 
him a good, simple fellow, while he was the exact 
reverse of both. 

On leaving the table they went to take the air in 
the starlit evening, and M. des Rameures — whose 
natural hospitality was somewhat heightened by a 
(piantum of his own excellent wine— said to him : 

“ My dear Count, you eat honestly, you talk ad- 
mirably, you drink like a man. On my word, I am • 
disposed to regard you as perfection — as a paragon 
of neighbors — if in addition to all the rest you add 
the crowning one. Do you love music ?” 

“ Passionately !” answered Camors with effusion. 

, “ Passionately ? Bravo ! That is the way one 
should love everything that is worth loving. 1 am 
'lelighted, for we make here a troupe of fanatical 
music-maniacs, as you will ])resently perceive. As 
for myself, I scrape wildly on the violin, as a simple 
country atnateur — Orpheus in silvis. Do not im- 
agine, however, M. le Comte, that we let the wor- 
ship of this sweet art absorb all onr faculties — all 
our time — certainly not. When you take part in 
our little reunions, which of course you will do, you 


CAMORS. 


145 


will find we disdain no ])ursuit worthy of tlnnking 
beings. We pass from music to literature — to 
science — even to philosophy ; but we do this — I pray 
you to believe — without pedantry and without leav- 
ing the tone of familiar converse. Sometimes we read 
verses, but we never make them ; we love the an- 
cients and do not fear the moderns : we only fear 
those who would lower the mind and debase the 
heart. We love the past while we render justice to 
the present ; and flatter ourselves at not seeing many 
things that to you appear beautiful, useful, and true. 

“Such are we, my young friend. AVe call our- 
selves the ‘ Colony of Enthusiasts,’ but our malicious 
neighbors call us the ‘ Hotel de Rambouilles.’ Envy, 
you know, is a plant that does not flourish in the 
country ; but here, by way of exception, we have a 
few jealous people — rather bad for them, but of no 
consequence to us. 

“ AVe are an odd set, with the most opposite opiu- 
ions. For me, I am a Legitimist; then there is Du 
Itocher, my physician, a friend who is a rabid Repub- 
lican ; Hedouin, the tutor, is a parliamentarian ; 
while iM. le Sous-Prefet is a devotee to the govern- 
ment, as it is his duty to be. Our Cure is a 
little Roman — I am Galilean — Et sic ceteris. Very 
^vell — we all agree wonderfully for two reasons : 
1st, because we are sincere, which is a very rare 
thing ; and then because all opinions contain at bot- 
tom some truth, and because, with some slight mu- 
tual concessions, all really honest people come very 
near having the same opinions. 


14G 


CAMORS. 


“ Sucli, my dear Count, are the views that liold 
ill my drawing-room, or rather in the drawing-room 
of my niece ; for if you would see the divinity who 
makes all our happiness — look at her ! It is in def- 
erence to her good taste, her good sense, and her 
moderation, that each one of us avoids that violence 
and that passion which warps the best intentions. 
In one word, to speak truly, it is love that makes 
our common tie and our mutual protection. W e are 
all in love with my niece — myself first, of course ; 
next Du Rocher, for thirty years; then the Sub- 
Prefect and all the rest of them. 

“ You, too. Cure ! you know you are in love with 
Elise, in all honor and all good faith, as we all are, 
and as M. de Camors shall soon be, if he is not so 
already — eh, M. le Comte?” 

Camors protested, with the smile of a young tiger, 
that he felt very much inclined to fulfil the prophecy 
of his host; and they re-entered the dining-room 
to find the circle increased by the arrival of several 
visitors. Some of these rode, others came on foot 
from the country-seats around. 

M. des Rameures soon seized his violin ; while he 
tuned it, little Marie seated herself at the piano, and 
her mother, coming behind her, rested her hand 
lightly on her shoulder, as if to beat the measure. 

“ Tlie music will be nothing new to you,” Camors’ 
liost said to him. “’Tis simply the Serenade of 
Schubert, which we have arranged, or deranged, after 
our own fancy ; of which you shall judge. My niece 
sings, and the Curate and Arcades ambo — re- 


CAMORS. 


147 


Bpond successively — he on the bass-viol and I on iny 
‘ Stradaverius.’ Come, my dear Cure, let us begin — 
incipe^ Mopse 2'>Tior.'‘'’ 

In spite of the masterly execution of the old gen- 
tleman and of the delicate science of the Cure, it 
was Mde. de Tecle who appeared to Camors the 
most remarkable of the three virtuose. The calm- 
repose of her features, and the gentle dignity of her 
attitude, contrasting with the passionate swell of her 
voice, he found most attractive. 

In his turn he seated himself at the piano, and 
played a difficult accompaniment witli real taste ; 
and having a good tenor voice, and a thorough knowl- 
edge of its powers, he exerted them so effectually as 
to produce a profound sensation. During the rest of 
the evening he kept much in the background to ob- 
serve the company, and was much astonished there- 
by. The tone of this little society, equally removed 
from vulgar gossip as from affected pedantry, was 
truly elevated. There was nothing to remind him 
of a porter’s lodge, like most provincial saloons ; of 
the green-room of a theatre, as many in Paris do ; 
nor yet, as he had feared, of a lecture-room. 

There were five or six ladies— some ])retty, all 
well bred — wlio, in ado])ting the habit of tliinking, 
had not lost the habit of laughing, nor the desire to 
please. But they all seemed subject to the same 
charm; and that charm was sovereign. JMde. de 
Tecle, half hidden on her sofa, and seemingly busied 
with her embroidery, animated all by a glance, soft- 
ened all by a word. Tlie glance was inspiring ; the 


148 


C AMORS. 


word always appropriate. Her decisions on all 
points they regarded as final — ^as tliose of a judge 
who sentenced, or of a woman who is belove<l. 

No verses were read that evening, and Caniors 
was not bored. In the intervals of the music, the 
conversation touched on the new Comedy of Augier; 
the last work of Madame Sand; the latest j)oeni ol 
Tennyson; or the news from America. 

“ My dear Mopsus,” M. des Rameures said to the 
C'ure, “ you were about to read us your sermon on 
su})erstition last Thursday, when you were inter- 
rn})ted by that joker who climbed the tree in order 
to hear you better. Now is the time to recompense 
us. Take this seat and we will all listen to you.” 

The worthy Cure took the seat, unfolded his man- 
uscript and commenced his discourse, which we shall 
not here report : profiting by the example of our 
friend Sterne, not to mingle the sacred with the 
profane. 

The sermon met with general approval, though 
some persons, M. des Rameures among then, thought 
it above the comprehension of the humble class for 
whom it was intended. M. de Tecle, however, 
backed by republican Du Rocher, insisted that the 
intelligence of the people was underrated ; that they 
were frequently debased by those who pretended 
to speak only up to their level — and the passages in 
dispute were retained. 

How they passed from the sermon on superstition 
to the approaching marriage of the General, I cannot 
lay; but it was only natural after all, for the whole 


QamoM 


149 


country, for twenty miles around, was ringing with 
it. This theme excited Camors’ attention at once, 
especially when the sub-prefect intimated with much 
reserve that the General, busied with his new sur- 
roundings, would probably resign his position as 
deputy. 

“ But that would be embarrassino:,” exclaimed 
Des Rameures. “ Who the deuce would replace 
him ? I give you fair warning, Mr. Prefect, if you 
intend imposing on us some Parisian with a flower 
in his button-hole, I shall pack him back to his 
Club — him, his flower, and his button-hole ! You 
may set that down for a sure thing — ” 

“ My uncle !” said Madame de T^cle, indicating 
Camors with a glance. 

“I understand you, my niece,” laughingly rejoined 
M. des Rameures, “but I must beg Monsieur de 
Camors to believe that I would not in any case 
intend to oflend him. I will also beg him to toler- 
ate the monomania of an old man, and some freedom 
of language with regard to the only subject which 
makes him lose his sang froicV'' 

“And what is that subject. Monsieur?” said Cam- 
ors, with his habitual captivating grace of manner. 

“ That subject. Monsieur, is the arrogant suprem- 
acy assumed by Paris over all the rest of France. 
I have not put my foot in the place since ’25, in 
order to testify the abhorrence with which it inspires 
me. You are an educated, sensible young man, and 
I trust a good Frenchman. Very well! Can it be 
right, I ask, that Paris shall «vory morning send out 


150 


CAMORS. 


to US our ideas ready made, and that all Frai ce shall 
become the mere humble, servile faubourg of the 
capital. Do me the favor, I pray you. Monsieur, to 
answer that ?” 

“ There is doubtless, my dear sir,” replied Caniors, 
“some excess in this extreme centralization of 
France ; but all civilized countries must have their 
capitals, and a head is just as necessary to a nation 
as to an individual.” 

“ Taking your own image. Monsieur, I shall turn 
it against you. Yes, doubtless a head is as neces- 
sary for a nation as for an individual ; if, however, 
the head becomes deformed and monstrous, the seat 
of intelligence will be turned into that of idiocy, 
and in place of a man of intellect, you have a hy- 
drocephalus.* Pray give heed to what Monsieur, 
the Sous-Prefet^ Tnay say in answer to what I shall 
ask him. Now, my dear Sous-Prefet^ be frank. If, 
to-morrow, the deputation of this district should be- 
come vacant, can you find within its broad limits, or 
indeed within the department, a man as apt to fill 
the functions well as badly ?” 

“ Upon my word,” answered the official, “ if you 
continue to refuse the position, I really know of no 
one else fit for it.” 

“ I shall persist all my life. Monsieur, for at my 
age assuredly I shall not expose myself to the buf- 
foonery of your Parisian jesters.” 


• A similar remark will be found iii one of the f peeches of Mivabean. 
— Translator. 


CAM OKS. 


151 


“Very well! In that event yon will be obliged 
to take some stranger — perhaps, even one of those 
Parisian jesters.” 

“You have heard him, Monsieur de Camors,” said 
M. des Rameures, with exultation. “This depart- 
ment numbers six hundred thousand souls, and yet 
does not contain within it the material for one dep- 
uty. There is no other civilized country, I submit, 
in which we can find a similar instance so scandalous. 
For us of France this shame is exclusively reserved, 
and it is your Paris that has brought it upon us. 
Paris, absorbing all the blood, life, thought, and 
action of the country, has left a mere geographical 
skeleton in place of a nation ! These are the bene- 
fits of your centralization, since you have pronounced 
that word, which is quite as barbarous as the thing 
tself.” 

“But pardon me, uncle,” said Madame de Tecle, 
quietly plying her needle, “ I know nothing of these 
matters, but it seems to me that I have heard you 
say this centralization was the work of the Revolu- 
tion and of the First Consul. Why, therefore, do 
you call Monsieur de Camors to account for it? 
That certainly does not seem to me just.” 

“Nor does it seem so to me,” said Camors, bow- 
ing to Madame de T^cle. 

“Nor to me either,” rejoined M. des Rameures, 
smiling. 

“ However, Madame,” resumed Camors, “ I may to 
some extent be held responsible in this matter, for 
though, as you justlv suggest, I have not brought 


152 


CAMOnS!. 


abou"^ this centralization, yet I confess I strongly 
approve the course of those who did.” 

“ Bravo ! So much the better, Monsieur. I like 
that. One should have his own positive opinions, 
and defend them.” 

“Monsieur,” said Camors, “I shall make an ex- 
ception in your honor, for when I dine out, and 
especially when I dine well, I always have the same 
opinion with my host; but I respect you too highly 
not to dare to differ with you. Well, then, I think 
the revolutionary Assembly and the First Consul sub- 
sequently were happily inspired in imposing a vigor- 
ous centralized political administration upon France. 
I believe, indeed, that it was indispensable at the 
time, in order to mould and harden our social body 
in its new form, to adjust it in its position, and fix it 
firmly under the new laws — that is, to establish and 
maintain this powerful French unity which has b(‘- 
come our national peculiarity, our genius and 
strength. ” 

“You speak rightly, sir,” exclaimed Du Rocher. 

“ Parhleu ! unquestionably you are right,” waf-inl v 
rejoined M. des Ranieures. “ Yes, that is quite true. 
The excessive centralization of which I complain lias 
had its hour of utility, nay, even of necessity, I will 
admit ; but. Monsieur, in what human institution do 
you pretend to implant the absolute, the eternal ? 
Feudalism, also, my dear sir, was a benefit and a 
progress in its day, but that which was a benefit 
yesterday may it not become an evil to-morrow — a 
danger? That which is ])rogress to-day, may it not 


( 7/1 MORS. 


153 


one hundred years hence liave become mere loutiiie, 
and a downright trammel ? Is not that the history 
of the world ? And if you wish to know, Monsieur, 
by what sign we may recognize when a social or po- 
litical system has attained its end, I will tell you : 
it is when it is manifest only in its inconveniences 
and abuses. Then the machine has done its work, 
and should be replaced. Indeed, I declare tliat 
French centralization has reached its critical term, 
tliat fatal point at which, after having protected, it 
oppresses ; at which, after having vivified, it para- 
lyzes ; at which, after having saved France, it crushes 
her.” 

“My uncle, you are carried away by your sub- 
ject,” said Madame de Tecle. 

“Yes, my niece, I am carried away, I admit, but 
I am right. All justify me — the past and tlie pres- 
ent, I am sure ; and so will the future, I fear. Did I 
say tlie past ? Be assured. Monsieur de Camors, I am 
not a narrow-minded admirer of the past. Though a 
Legitimist from personal affections, I am a downright 
Liberal in principles. You know that, DuRocher? 
Well then, in short, formerly between the Alps, the 
Rhine, and the Pyrenees there was a great country 
which lived, which thought, and which acted, not 
exclusively through its capital, but for itself. It had 
a head, assuredly; but there were also a heart, 
muscles, nerves, and veins with blood in them, and 
yet the head lost nothing by that. There was then 
a France, Monsieur. The province had an exist- 
ence, subordinate doubtless, but real, active, and 


154 


CAMORS. 


independent. Each government, each intendancy 
each parliamentary centre was a living intellectual 
focus. The great provincial institutions and local 
liberties exercised the intellect on all sides, tempered 
the character, and developed men. And now note 
well, Du Rocher ! If France had been centralized 
formerly as to-day, there never would have been your 
dear Revolution — do you understand ? Never! be- 
cause there would have been no men to make it. 
For may I not ask, whence came that prodigious 
concourse of intelligences all fully armed, and of 
heroic hearts, which the great social movement of 
1780 suddenly brought upon the scene? Please re- 
call to mind the most illustrious men of that era — 
juriscofiRults, orators, soldiers. How many from 
Pans? All came from the provinces, the fruitful 
womb » ff France ! But to-day we have simply need 
for a deputy, for peaceful times ; and yet, out of six 
liundred thousand souls, as we have seen, cannot find 
one suitable man. Why is this the case, gentlemen ? 
Because upon the soil of uncentralized France men 
grew, while only functionaries germinate in the soil 
of centralized France.” 

“ God ble//i you. Monsieur !” said the Som-Prefet 
with a smihi. 

“ Pardon me, my dear Som-Prefet, but you, too, 
should understand that I really plead your cause as 
vv^ell as my own, when I claim for the provinces, and 
for all tl.e functions of provincial life, more inde- 
pendence, dignity, and grandeur. In the state to 
which tl cse functions are re<luced at present, the ad 


CAM0R8. 


155 


miliLstl'iilion and tlie judiciary aie equally stripped 
of power, prestige, and patronage. You smile, Mon- 
sieur, but no longer as formerly are the centres of 
life, of emulation, and of light, civic schools and 
manly gymnasiums ; but mere simple, passive clock- 
work; and so for the rest. Monsieur de Camors. 
Our municipal institutions are a mere farce, our pro- 
vincial assemblies only a name, our local liberties 
naught ! Consequently, we do not now have a man 
for a deputy. But why should we complain ? Does 
not Paris undertake to live, to think for us ? Does 
she not deign to cast to us, as of yore the Roman 
Senate did to the suburban plebeians, our food for 
the day — bread and vaudevilles — pemern et circences. 
Yes, Monsieur, let us turn from the past to the pres- 
ent — to France of to-day ! A nation of forty mil- 
lions of people who await each morning from Paris 
the signal to know whether it is day or night, or 
whether, indeed, they shall laugh or weep ! A great 
])eople, once the noblest, the cleverest in the world, 
repeating the same day, at the same hour, in all the 
salons^ and at all the crossways in the Empire, the 
same imbecile gabble engendered the evening before 
ill the mire of the Boulevards. I tell you. Monsieur, 
it is humiliating that all Europe, once jealous of us, 
should now shrug her shoulders in our faces. Be- 
sides, it is fatal even for Paris, which, permit me to 
add, drunk with prosperity in its haughty isolation 
and self-fetichism, not a little resembles the Chinese 
Empire— a focus of warmed over, corrupt, and frivo- 
lous civilization ! As for the future, my dear sir, 


156 


C AMORS. 


may God preserve me from despair, since it cjmcerns 
my country. This age has already seen great things, 
great marvels, in fact ; for I beg you to remember I 
am by no means an enemy to my time. I approve the 
Revolution, liberty, equality, the press, railways, and 
the telegraph; and as I often say to Monsieur le 
Cure, every cause that would live must accommodate 
itself cheerfully to the progress of its epoch, and 
study how to serve itself by it. Every cause that is 
in antagonism with its age commits suicide. Indeed, 
Monsieur, I trust this century will see one more 
great event, the end of this Parisian dictorate, and 
the resuscitation of provincial life ; for I must repeat, 
my dear sir, that your centralization, which was once 
an excellent remedy, is a detestable regimen !* It is 
a horrible instrument of oppression and tyranny, 
ready made for all hands, suitable for every despot- 
ism, and under it France stifles and wastes away. 
You must agree with me yourself, Du Rocher ; in this 
sense the Revolution overshot its mark, and jeoi)ar- 
dized even its purposes ; for you who love liberty, 
and do not wish it merely for yourself alone, as 
some of your friends do, but for all the world, surely 
you cannot admire centralization, which proscribes 
liberty as manifestly as night obscures the day. As 
for my part, gentlemen, there are two things which 
I love equally — liberty and France. Well, then, as 
I believe in God, do I believe that both must perish 
in the throes of some convulsive catastrojihe if all 

Burke used this phrase in one of his speeches with regard to the 
French Kevolution.— 'Translator. 


CAMORS. 


157 


the life of the nation shall continue to ht concen- 
trated in the brain, and the great reform for which 1 
call is not made: if a vast system of local fran- 
chise, if provincial institutions, largely independent 
and conformable to the modern spirit, are not soon 
established to yield fresh blood for our exhausted 
veins, and to fertilize our impoverished soil. Un- 
doubtedly the work will be difficult and complicated, 
it will demand a firm, resolute hand ; but the hand 
that may accomplish it will have achieved the most 
j)atriotic work of the century. Tell that to your 
sovereign. Monsieur Sous-Prkfet ; say to him that if 
he do that, there is one old French heart which will 
bless him. Tell him, also, that he will encounter 
much passion, much derision, much danger, perad- 
venture ; but that he will have a commensurate re- 
compense when he shall see France, like Lazarus, 
delivered from its swathings and its shroud, rise up 
again, sound and whole, to salute him !” 

These last words the old gentleman had pro- 
nounced with fire, emotion, and extraordinary dig- 
nity ; and the silence and respect with which he had 
been listened to were prolonged after he had ceased to 
speak. This appeared to embarrass him, but taking 
the arm of Camors he said, with a smile, “ '‘kernel in- 
sanivimus omnes."* My dear sir, every one has his 
madness. I trust that mine has not offended you. 
Well, then, prove it to me by accompanying me on 
the piano in this song of the Sixteenth Century.” 

Camors complied with his usual good taste ; and 
the song of the Sixteenth Century terminated the 


158 


CAMORS. 


evening’s enleiUiinnient ; but the young Count, be- 
fore leaving, found the means of plunging Mde. de 
Ttcle in the most profound astonishment. He asked 
her in a low voice, and with peculiar emphasis, it 
she would be kind enough, at her leisure, to grant 
him the honor of a moment’s private conversation. 

Madame de T6cle opened still wider those large 
eyes of hers, blushed slightly, and replied that she 
would be at home the next afternoon at four 
o’clock. 


CAMORS, 


15& 


CHAPTER IX. 

LOVE CONQUERS PHILOSOPHY. 

To M. de Camors, in principle it was a matter 
of perfect indifference whether France was central- 
ized or decentralized. But his Parisian instinct in- 
duced him to prefer the former. In spite of this 
preference, he would not have scrupled to adopt the 
opinions of M. des Rameures, had not his own fine 
tact shown him that the proud old gentleman was 
not to be won by submission. 

He therefore reserved for him the triumph of his 
gradual conversion. Be that as it might, it was 
neither of centralization nor of decentralization that 
the young Count proposed to speak to Madame de 
Tecle, when, at the appointed hour, he presented 
liimscdf before her. He found her in the garden, 
which, like the house, was of an ancient, severe, and 
monastic style. A terrace planted with lime-trees 
extended on one side of the garden. It was at this 
spot that Madame de Tecle was seated under a 
group of lime-trees, forming a rustic bower. 

She was fond of this place, because it recalled to 
her that evening when her unexpected apparition 
had suddenly inspired with a celestial joy the pale, 
disfigured face of her betrothed. 


160 


CAMORS. 


She w;is scaled at a small rustic table, covered 
with pieces of wool and silk, on a low chaiiy her feet 
elevated on a stool, and working on a piece of 
ta])estry with great apparent tranquillity. 

M. de Camors, an expert in all the niceties and 
exquisite devices of the female mind, smiled to him- 
self at this audience in the o})en air. He thong) it 
he fathomed its meaning. Madame de Tecle desired 
to deprive this interview of the confidential charac- 
ter which closed doors would have given it. 

This was the simple truth. This young woman, 
who was one of the noblest of her sex, was not at all 
simple. She had not passed ten years of her youtii, 
her beauty, and her widowhood without receiving, 
under forms more or less direct, some dozens of 
declarations, which had inspired her with impi’cs- 
sions, which, although just, were not always too 
fiattering to the delicacy and discretion of the oji- 
posite sex. Like all women of her age, she knew 
her danger, and, unlike most of them, she did not 
love it. She had invariably turned into the broad 
road of friendship all those she had surprised ram- 
bling within the prohibited limits of love. The 
request of M. de Camors for a private interview had 
seriously preoccupied her since the previous evening. 
What could be the object of this mysterious inter- 
view ? She puzzled her brain to imagine, but could 
not divine. 

It was not probable that M. de Camors, at the 
commencement of their acquaintance, would feel 
himself entitled to declare his passion. However 


CAMons. 


161 


much the renowned gallanti-y of tlie young Coiinl 
rose to her memory, she thought so famous a lady- 
killer as he might adopt unusual methods, and 
might think himself entitled to dispense with much 
ceremony in dealing with an humble provincial. 

Animated by these ideas, she resolved to receive 
him in the garden, having remarked, during her 
short experience, that open air and a wide open 
space were not favorable to bold wooers. 

M. de Camors bowed to Madame de Tecle, as an 
Englishman would have bowed to his Queen ; then 
seating himself, drew his chair nearer to hers, mis- 
chievously perhaps, and lowering his voice into a 
confidential tone, said: “Madame, will you permit 
me to confide a secret to you, and to ask your 
counsel ?” 

She raised her graceful head, fixed upon the Count 
her soft bright gaze, smiled vaguely, and by a slight 
movement of the hand intimated to him, “ You sur- 
prise me ; but I will listen to you.” 

“ This is my first secret, Madame — I desire to be 
Deputy for this District.” 

At this unexpected declaration, Madame de Tecle 
looked at him, breathed a slight sigh of relief, and 
gravely listened to what he had to say. 

“ The General de Campvallon, Madame,” con- 
tinued the young man, “has manifested a father’s 
kindness to me. He intends resigning in my favor, 
and has not concealed from me that the support of 
your uncle is indispensable to my success as a can- 
didate. I have therefore come here, by the General’s 


1G2 


CAMORS. 


advice, in the hope of obtaining this support, but 
the ideas and opinions expressed yesterday by yoiii 
uncle, appear to me so directly opposed to my pre 
tensions, that I feel truly discouraged. To be brief, 
Madame, in my perplexity I conceived the idea — in- 
discreet doubtless — to appeal to your kindness, and 
ask your advice — which I am determined to follow, 
whatever it may be.” 

“ But, Monsieur ! you embarrass me greatly,” said 
tlie young woman, whose pretty face, at first clouded, 
briglitened up immediately with a frank smile. 

“ I have no special claims on your kindness — on 
tlie contrary perhaps — but I am a human being, and 
you are charitable. Well, in truth, Madame, this 
matter seriously concerns my fortune, my futurfj, and 
my whole destiny. Tins opportunity which now pre- 
sents itself for me to enter public life so young, is 
exceptional. I would regret very much to lose it ; 
would you therefore be so kind as to aid me ?” 

“ But how can I ?” replied Madame de Tecle. “ I 
never interfere in politics, and that is precisely what 
you ask me.” 

“ Nevertheless, Madame, I pray you not to oppose 
me.” 

“ Why should I oppose you ?” 

“ My heavens, Madame ! You have a right more 
than any other person to be severe. My youth w^as 
a little dissipated. My reputation, in some respects, 
is not over-good, I know, and I doubt not you may 
have heard so, and cannot but fear it has inspired 
you with some dislike to me.” 


CAMORS. 


163 


“ Monsieur, we lived very retired here. We know 
nothing of what passes at Paris, If we did, this 
would not prevent my assisting you, if I knew how, 
for I think that serious and elevated labors could 
not fail happily to change your ordinary habits.” 

“ It is truly a delicious thing,” thought the young 
Count, “ to mystify so spiritual a person.” 

“Madame,” he continued, with his quiet grace, 
“ I join in your hopes, but as you deign to encourage 
my ambition, believe I shall succeed in obtaining 
your uncle’s support. You know him well. What 
shall I do to conciliate him ? What course shall I 
adopt ? because I cannot do without his assistance. 
Were I to renounce that, I should be compelled to 
renounce my projects.” 

“It is truly difficult,” said Madame de T^cle, with 
a reflective air — “ very difficult !” 

“ Is it not, Madame ?” 

There were in the voice of Camors such confi- 
dence and submission, that Madame de Tecle was 
quite touched, and even the devil himself would 
have been charmed in the depths of hell. 

“Let me reflect on this a little,” she said, and she 
j)laced her elbows on the table, leaned her head on 
her hands, her fingers, like a fan, half shading her 
eyes, while sparks of fire from her rings glittered in 
the sunshine, and her ivory nails gently stroked her 
smooth brow. M. de Camors continued to regard 
her with the same submissive and candid air. 

“ Well, Monsieur,” she said at last, smiling, “ I 
think you can do notliing better than keep on.” 


1G4 


(Jam oil 3. 


“Pardon me, but hove?” 

“ By persevering in the same system you have 
already adopted with my uncle ! Say nothing to 
him for the present. Beg of the General also to be 
silent. Wait quietly until intimacy, time, and your 
own good qualities have sufficiently prepared my 
uncle for your nomination. My rdle is very simple. 
I cannot, at this moment, aid you, without betray- 
ing ypu. My assistance would only injure you, until 
a change in the aspect of affairs. You must con- 
ciliate him.” 

“You overpower me,” said Camors, “in taking 
you for my confidante in my ambitious projects. I 
committed a blunder and an impertinence, which a 
slight contempt from you has mildly punished. But 
speaking seriously, Madame, I thank you with all 
my heart. I feared to find in you a powerful enemy, 
and I find in you a strong neutral, almost an ally.” 

“ Oh ! altogether an ally, however secret,” re- 
sponded Madame de Tecle, laughing. I am glad to 
be useful to you : as I love General Campvallon very 
much, I am happy to enter into his views. Come 
here, Marie ?” These last words were addressed to 
her daughter, who appeared on the steps of the ter- 
race, her cheeks scarlet, and her hair dishevelled, 
holding a card in her hand. She immediately ap- 
proached her mother, giving M. de Camors one of 
those awkward salutations peculiar to young, grow- 
ing girls. 

“ Will you permit me,” said Madame de Tbcle, 
“to give to my daughter a few orders in English, 








■ r ' 
4 ' ■ ■ 


I 

•v\ 


'C ' * 


K ’• 

I 



?V. « J .i^'T v j^l 

V ■ r' -,- 1 [ 

t ■-* ■’ 

- ii' 

'■ ■ ? ‘ ■'. » . 


r-«.' 



' ' * ■■ >'. ■* ' f ■■>••*■-, 




I. <»•* ' 



5r 


, 3 ’ 


i-v r'* 

• -■ JU 



^ jC 7 



V # 


V’ 


I 4 


I • * 


J#* ', >^1*. • 

r.t , "? * 


.‘ *^1 







• ■ j 


)1 


‘ o.. 


^♦V.‘ • • 


■■ ■ '^V. • 

I I ° A’’ -• --^i_ * 

■;. '.^V-'. ■?> , 

. j 





;'‘^ a. ^ 

***i IiT * ^ » 

*'? r- 

*) . < 








t 1 

^ ' - ,J ,* . 

♦ • »L 

S'. •*u*^ 


,* . ♦ ■ 

• 1*'v . !„ 

* 

* 

• t 

.i- ■ 

t 

« • * 

-t: 

A 

t 


> . 


f • 




■ 

‘■-- • 3- - 


-r. : 


' -‘’ .■ 

' .■ .. V-'- r •--■ 

■’' , *V' ■•»->. 

. -* - '* . . - r 

- * * . . - ' % ♦ ■ ^ J* 

•-} I . -A ' 

^^4 - r. 

ti. ••• * >• — 




« « 


V I 

- *1 

J <r 


4 

v-" i!B 


"'f n - , " 

-• ^ 

'• - 

} « m 


\ 




»*V' 


A ^ • - -- r * 


t ^ 


9 




.^-v fi •- 



G AMORS. 2 ( 3 ^ 

wliich we are translating? You are too warni—do 
not run any more. Tell Rosa to prepare my bod- 
dice with small buttons. While I am dressing, you 
can say your catechism to me.” 

“Yes, mother.” 

“ Have you written your exercise ?” 

“ Yes, mother. How do you say in English 
tor a man?” asked the little girl. 

“ Why ?” 

“ This is to be my exercise for a man who is ‘ beau, 
joli, distingue.'' ” 

“ Handsome, nice, distinguished,” replied her 
mother. 

“Very well, mother, this gentleman, our neigh- 
bor, is altogether handsome, nice, and charming.” 

“ Silly child !” exclaimed Madame de Tecle, while 
the little girl rushed down the steps like a cascade. 

M. de Camors, who listened to this dialogue with 
cool calmness, rose. “Thanks again, Madame,” he 
said ; “ and excuse me. You will allow me, from 
time to time, to confide in you my political hopes 
and fears ?” 

“ Certainly, Monsieur.” 

He bowed and retired. As he was crossing the 
courtyard, he found himself face to face with Mile. 
Marie. He gave her a most respectful bow. “ An- 
other time. Miss Marie, be more careful. I under- 
stand English perfectly well !” 

Mile. Marie remained in the same attitude, blushed 
up to the roots of her hair, and cast on M. de Camors 
a startled look of mixed shame and anger. 


160 


CAMOttS. 


“ You are not satisfied, Miss Mary,’' eontinued 
Camors. 

“ Not at all,” said the child quickly, her strong 
voice somewhat husky. 

Monsieur Camors laughed, bowed again, and do 
parted, leaving IMlle. Marie in the midst of the court, 
transfixed with indignation. 

A few moments after Marie threw herself into the 
arms of her mother, weeping bitterly, and told her, 
through her tears, of her cruel mishap. 

Madame de Tecle, in using this opportunity of 
giving her daugliter a lesson on reserve and on con- 
venance^ avoided treating the matter too seriously 
and even seemed to laugh heartily at it, althougli 
she had little inclination to do so, and the child 
finished by laughing with her. 

Camors, meanwhile, remained at home, congratu- 
lating himself on his campaign, which seemed to 
him not without reason to have been a master- 
piece of stratagem. By a clever mixture of frank- 
ness and cunning he had quickly enlisted IMadaine 
de Tecle in his interest. From that moment the 
realization of his ambitious dreams seemed assured, 
for he was not ignorant of the incomparable value 
of woman’s assistance, and knew all the power of 
that secret and continued labor, of those small but 
cumulative efforts, and of those subterranean move- 
ments which assimilate feminine influence to the 
secret and irresistible forces of Nature. Another 
point gained — he had ostabllsh(*d a secret between 
that pretty woman and hims(‘lf, ;iud had placed him- 


CAMOBS. 


167 


self on a confidential footing witli her. lie had 
gained the right to keep secret their clandestine 
words and private conversation, and such a position 
cleverly managed could aid him to pass very agree- 
ably the period occupied in his political canvass. 

Camors on entering the house sat down to write 
the General, to inform him of the opening of his 
operations, and admonish him to have patience. 
From that day he turned his attention to following 
up the two persons who could control his election. 

His policy as regarded M. des Rameures was as 
simple as it was clever. It has already been clearly 
indicated, and further details would be unnecessary. 
Profiting by his growing familiarity as neighbor, he 
went to school, as it were, at the model farm of the 
old gentleman-farmer, and gave him up the direction 
of his own domain. By this quiet compliment, en- 
hanced by his captivating courtesy, he advanced in- 
sensibly in the good graces of the old man. Every 
day, as he began to know him better, and as he felt 
more the strength of his character, he began to fear 
til at on essential points he was quite inflexible. 

After some weeks of almost daily intercourse, M. 
des Rameures graciously praised his young neighbor 
as a charming fellow, an excellent musician, an ami- 
able associate ; but to make him a deputy, saw some 
things which might disqualify him. Madame de 
T6cle feared this, and did not hide it from M. de 
Camors. The young Count did not preoccupy 
himself so much on this subject as might be sup- 
posed, for his second ambition had superseded Ida 


168 


VAMonS. 


first ; in other words, his fancy for Madame de T6cle 
had become more ardent and more pressing than his 
love for the deputyship. We are compelled to ad- 
mit, not to his credit, that he first proposed to him- 
self the seduction of his neighbor as a simple pas- 
time, as an interesting adventure, and above all, as 
a work of art, which was extremely difficult and 
would redound to his great honor. Although he 
had met few women of her merit, he judged her cor- 
rectly. He believed Madame de T^cle was not sim- 
])ly a virtuous woman from force of habit or duty. 
She had passion. She was not a prude, but was 
cliaste. She was not a devotee, but was pious. He 
read in her at the same time a spirit elevated, yet 
not narrow; lofty and dignified sentiments, and 
deeply-rooted principles ; virtue without rigor, pure 
and lambent as flame. 

Nevertheless he did not despair, trusting to his 
own principles, to the fascinations of his manner 
and his previous successes. Instinctively, he knew 
that the ordinary forms of gallantry would not an- 
swer with her. All his art was to surround her witli 
absolute respect, and to leave the rest to time and 
to the growing intimacy of each day. 

There was something very touching to Madame 
de Tecle in the reserved and timid manner of this 
“ maiivais in her presence — the homage of 

a fallen spirit, as though ashamed of being such, in 
presence of a spirit of light. 

Never either in public, nor in their tUe-OrtUes^ 


VAMORS. 


IGO 


wap there a jest, a word, or a looh wliicli the most 
sensitive virtue could fear. 

This young man, ironical with all the rest of the 
world, was serious with her. From the moment he 
turned toward her, his voice, face, and conversation 
became as serious as though he had entered a church. 
He had a great deal of wit, and he used and abused 
it beyond measure in conversations in the presence 
of Madame de Tecle, as though he Tvere making a 
display of fireworks in her honor. But on coming 
to her he was suddenly extinguished, and was all 
submission and respect. 

Every woman who receives from a superior man 
such refined flattery as this does not necessarily love 
him, but does like him. In the shadow of the per- 
fect security in which M. de Camors had placed her, 
Madame de Tecle could not but be pleased in the 
company of the most distinguished man she had 
ever met, and who had, like herself, the taste for art, 
music, and high cultivation. 

Thus these innocent relations with a young man 
whose reputation was rather equivocal, could not 
but awaken in the heart of Madame de Tecle a sen- 
timent, or rather an illusion, which the most prudish 
could not condemn. 

Libertines offer to vulgar women an attraction 
which surprises, but which springs from a very 
blamable curiosity. To a woman of society they 
offer another, more noble yet not less dangerous — it 
is the attraction of reforming them. It is rare that 


170 


CAMOES. 


virtuous women do not fall into the error of heliev- 
ing that it is for virtue’s sake alone they love them. 

Such in brief were the secret sympathies whose 
slight tendrils intertwined, blossomed, and flowered 
little by little in this soul, as tender as it was 
pure. 

M. de Camors vaguely foresaw all this : that which 
he had not foreseen, was that he himself would be 
caught in his own snare, and would be sincere in 
the role which he had so judiciously adopted, as 
Madame de Tecle captivated him. Her very puri- 
tanism, united with her native grace and worldly 
elegance, composed a kind of daily charm which 
piqued the imagination of the cold young man. 
If it was a poAverful temptation for the angels to 
save the tempted, the tempted could not caress with 
more delight the thought of destroying the angels. 
Tliey dream, like the reckless Epicureans of the 
Bible, of mingling, in a new intoxication, the earth 
with heaven. To these sombre instincts of depravity 
were soon united in the feelings of Camors a senti- 
ment more worthy of her. Seeing her every day 
Avith that childlike intimacy Avhich the country en- 
courages — enhancing the graceful movements of this 
accomplished person, ever self-possessed and equally 
prepared for duty or for pleasure — as animated as 
passion, yet as severe as virtue — he conceived for 
her a genuine worship. It was not respect, for that 
requires the effort of believing in such merits, and 
lie (lid not Avish to believe. He thought Madame de 
Tecle Avas born so, He admired her like a rare 


CAMORS. 


Ill 


plant, a beautiful ol)jcct, an exquisite work, in which 
nature had combined physical and moral grace with 
perfect proportion and harmony. His deportment 
as slave near her was not long a performance. Our 
fair readers have, doubtless, remarked an odd fact — 
which is, that where a reciprocal sentiment of two 
feeble human beings has reached a certain point of 
maturity, chance never fails to furnish a fatal occa- 
sion which betrays the speret of the two hearts, and 
suddenly launches the thunderbolt which has been 
gradually gathering in the clouds. This is the crisis 
of all love. This occasion presented itself to Ma- 
dame de Tecle and M. de Camors in the form of an 
unpoetic incident. 

It was the end of October. Camors had gone out 
after dinner to take a ride in the neighborhood. 
Night had already fallen, clear and cold ; but as the 
Count could not see Madame de Tecle that evening, 
he began only to think of being near her, and felt 
that unwillingness to work common to lovers — striv- 
ing, if possible, to kill time, which hung heavy on 
his hands. 

He hoped also that violent exercise might calm 
his spirit, which had never been more profoundly 
agitated. Still young and unpractised in his pitiless 
system, he was troubled at the thought of a victim 
so pure as Madame de T5cle. To trample on the 
life, the repose, and the heart of such a woman, as 
the horse tramples on the grass of the road, with as 
little care or pity, was hard for a novice. 

As strange as it may appear, the idea of marrying 


172 


OAMORS. 


her liad occurred to him. Then lie siiid to liimnelf 
that this weakness was in direct contradiction to his 
principles, and that she would cause him to lose for- 
ever the mastery over himself, and throw him back 
into the nothingness of his past life. Yet with the 
corrupt inspirations of his depraved soul he foresaw 
that the moment he touched her hands with the lips 
of a lover a new sentiment would spring up in her 
soul. As he abandoned himself to these passionate 
imaginings, the recollection of young Madame Les- 
cande came back suddenly to his memory. He grew 
pale in the darkness. At this moment he was pass- 
ing by the edge of a little wood belonging to the 
Count de Tecle, of which a portion had recently 
been cleared. It was not chance alone that had di- 
rected the Count’s ride to this point. Madame de 
Tecle loved this spot, and had frequently taken him 
there, and on the preceding evening, accompanied 
by her daughter and her father-in-law, had visited 
it with him. 

The site was a peculiar one. Although not hA’ 
from houses, the wood was very wild, as though a 
tliousand miles distant from any other place. 

You would have said it was a virgin forest, un- 
touched by the axe of the pioneer. Enormous stumps 
without bark, trunks of gigantic trees, covered pell- 
mell the declivity of the hill, and barricaded, here 
and there, in a picturesque manner, the current of 
tlie brook which ran into the valley. A little higher 
up tlie dense wood of tufted trees contributed to 
dilFuse that religious light half over the rocks, the 


CA^fons. 


173 


brushwood and tlic fertile soil, and on the limpid 
water, which is the charm and liorror of old ne- 
glected woods. In this solitude, and on a space of 
cleared ground, rose a sort of rude hut, which a poor 
devil had himself constructed who was a sabot- 
maker by profession ; and who had been allowed to 
establish himself there by the Count de Tecle, and 
to use the beech-trees to gain his humble living. 
This Bohemian interested Madame de T5cle, proba- 
bly because, like M. de Camors, he had a bad rep- 
utation. He lived in his cabin with a woman who 
was still pretty under her rags, and with two little 
boys with golden curls. 

He was a stranger in the neighborhood, and the 
woman was said not to be his wife. He was a taci- 
turn man, whose features seemed fine and deter- 
mined under his thick, black beard. 

Madame de Tecle amused herself seeing him make 
his sabots. She loved the children, w^ho, though 
dirty, were beautiful as angels, and pitied the wo- 
man. In her secret mind, she meditated marrying 
her to the man, in case she had not yet been, which 
seemed most probable. 

Camors slowly walked his horse over the rocky 
and winding path on the slope of the hillock. 
This was the moment when the ghost of, Madame 
Lescande had, as it were, risen before him, and he 
believed he could almost hear her cry. All at once 
this illusion gave place to a strange reality. The 
voice of a woman plainly called him’ by name, in 
accents of distress — “ Monsieur de Camors !” 


174 


CAMORS. 


Stopping Ills horse on the instant, he felt an icy 
shudder pass through his frame. The same voice 
rose higher and called him again. He recognized it 
as the voice of Madame de Tecle. Looking around 
him in the obscure light with a rapid glance, lie 
saw a light shining through the foliage in the direc- 
tion of the cottage of the sabot-maker. Guided by 
this, he put spurs to his horse, crossed the cleared 
ground up the hillside, and found himself face to 
face with Madame de Tecle. She was standing at 
the threshold of the hut, her head bare, and her 
beautiful hair dishevelled under a long, black lace veil. 
She was giving a servant some hasty orders. When 
she saw Camors approach, she came toward him. 

“ Pardon me,” she said, “ but I thought I recog- 
nized you, and I called you. I am so much dis- 
tressed — so distressed! The two children of this 
man are dying ! — What is to be done ? Come in — 
come in, 1 beg of you !” 

He leaped to the ground, threw the reins to his 
servant, and followed Madame de Tecle into the 
interior of the cabin. 

The two children with the golden hair were lying 
side by side on a little bed, immovable, rigid, the 
eyes open and their pupils strangely dilated — the 
faces red and agitated by slight convulsions. They 
seemed to be in the agony of death. The old Doc- 
tor, Du Rocher, was leaning over them, looking at 
them with a fixed, anxious, and despairing eye. 
The mother was on her knees, her head clasped in 
her hands, and weeping bitterly. At the foot of 


CAMORS. 


\1h 

the bed stood the father, with his savage mien — 
his arms crossed, and his eyes dry. He shuddered at 
intervals, and murmured, in a hoarse, hollow voice : 
“ Both of them ! — Both of them !” Then he relapsed 
into his mournful attitude. Monsieur Du Rocher ap- 
proached Camors quickly. “Monsieur,’’ said he, 
“ what can this be ? I believe it to be poisoning, 
but can detect no definite symptoms : otherwise, the 
parents should know — but they know nothing ! A 
sunstroke, perhaps ; but as both were struck at the 
same time — and then at this season — ah, our profes- 
sion is very useless sometimes.” 

Camors made rapid inquiries. They had sought 
M. du Rocher, who was dining with Madame de 
Tecle an hour before. He had hastened, and found 
the children already speechless, in a state of fearful 
congestion. It appeared they had fallen into this 
state when first attacked, and become delirious. 

Camors conceived an idea. He asked to see the 
clothes the children had worn during the day. The 
mother gave them to him. He examined them witli 
care, and pointed out to the Doctor several red 
stains on the poor rags. The Doctor touched his 
forehead, and turned over with a feverish hand the 
small linen — the rough waistcoat — searched the 
pockets, and found dozens of a small fruit like 
cherries, half crushed. “ Belladonna !” he exclaimed. 
“ That idea struck me several times, but how could 
I be sure? You cannot find it within twenty miles 
of this place, except in this cursed wood — that I am 
sure of,” 


176 


CAMORS. 


“ IJo you tliiiik there is yet time ?” asked the 
young Count, in a low voice. The children seem to 
me to be very ill.” 

“ Lost, I am afraid ; but everything dependb on 
the time which has passed, the quantity they have 
taken, and the remedies I can procure.” 

The old man consulted quickly with Madame de 
Tccle, who found she had not in her country ])har- 
macy the necessary remedies, or counter-irritants, 
which the urgency of the case demanded. Tlie 
Doctor was obliged to content himself with the es- 
sence of colfee, which the servant was ordered to 
prepare in haste, and to send to the village for tlie 
other things needed. 

“ To the village !” cried Mde. de Tecle. “ Good 
heavens ! it is four leagues — it is night, and we shall 
liave to wait probably three or four hours !” 

Camors heard this : “ Doctor, write your prescrip- 
tion,” he said : “ Trilby is at the door, and with him 
I can do the four leagues in an hour: — in one hour I 
promise to be here again.” 

“ Oil ! thanks,” said Madame de T^cle. 

He took the prescription which Dr. Du Rocher 
had rapidly traced on a leaf of his pocket-book, 
mounted his horse, and departed. 

The high-road was fortunately not far distant. 
When he reached it he put spurs to his horse, and 
rode like the Phantom horseman. 

It was nine o’clock when Madame de T^cle witnessed 
his departure — it was a few moments after ten when 
she heard the tramp of liis horse at the foot of the 


CAMOhS. 


Ml 

hill and ran to the door of the hut. Tlie condition 
of the two children seemed to have grown worse in 
the interval, but the old Doctor had great hopes in 
the remedies which Camors was to bring. She waited 
with impatience, and received him like the dawn of 
the last hope. She contented herself with pressing 
his hand, when, breathless, he descended from his 
horse. But this adorable creature threw herself on 
Trilby, who was covered with foam and steaming 
like a stove. 

“Poor Trilby,” she said, embracing him in her 
two arms — “dear Trilby — good Trilby! you are 
half dead, are you not ? But I love you well. Go 
quickly, M. de Camors, I will attend to Trilby” — 
and while the young man entered the cabin, she con- 
fided Trilby to the charge of her servant, with orders 
to take him to the stable, and a thousand minute 
directions to take good care of him after his noble 
conduct. Doctor Du Rocher had to obtain the aid 
of Camors to pass the new medicine through the 
clenched teeth of the unfortunate children. AVhile 
both were engaged in this work, Madame de Tecle 
was sitting on a stool with her head resting against 
the cabin wall. Du Rocher suddenly raised his eyes 
and fixed them on her. 

“ But, my dear Madame,” he said, “ you are ill. 
You have had too much excitement, and the odors 
here are insupportable. You must go home.” 

“ I really do not feel very well,” she murmured. 

“You really must go at once. We shall send you 
the news. One of youi’ servants will take you home,” 


178 


CAMORS. 


She raised herself, trembling ; but one look from 
the young wife of the sabot-maker arrested her. 
For this poor woman, it seemed that Providence de- 
serted her with Madame de Tecle. 

“No !” she said with a divine sweetness ; “ I Avill 
not go. I shall only breathe a little fresh air. I 
will remain until they are safe, I promise you and 
left the room smiling upon the poor woman. 
After a few minutes, Du Rocher said to M. de Ca- 
mors : 

“ My dear sir, I thank you — but I really have no 
farther need of your services ; so you too may go 
and rest yourself, for you are growing green also.” 

Camors, exhausted by his long ride, felt suffo- 
cated by the atmosphere of the hut, and consented 
to the suggestions of the old man, telling him he 
would not go far. 

As he put his foot outside of the cottage, Madame 
de T^cle, who was sitting before the door, quickly 
rose and threw over his shoulders a cloak which 
they had brought for her. She then reseated herself 
without speaking. 

“ But you cannot remain here all night,” he said. 

“I should be too uneasy at home.” 

“ But the night is very cold — shall I make you a 
fire ?” 

“ If you wish,” she said. 

“ Let us see where we can make this little fire. 
In the midst of this wood it is impossible — we should 
have a conflagration to finish the picture. Can you 


CAMOMS. lYO 

walk? Then take my arm, and we shall go and 
search for a place for onr encampment.” 

She leaned lightly on his arm, and made a few 
steps with him toward the forest. 

“ Do you think they are saved ?” she asked. 

“ I hope so,” he replied. “ The face of Dr. Du 
Rocher is more cheerful.” 

“ Oh ! how glad I am !” 

Both of them stumbled over a root, and com- 
menced laughing like two children for several min- 
utes. 

“ We shall soon be in the woods,” said Madame de 
T^jcle — “ and I declare I can go no farther : good or 
bad, I shall choose this spot.” 

They were still quite close to the hut, but the 
branches of the old trees which had been spared by 
the axe spread like a sombre dome ovei- tlieir heads. 
Near by was a large rock, slightly covered with 
moss, and a number of old trunks of trees, on which 
Madame de Tecle took her seat. 

“Nothing could be better,” said Camors, gayly. 
“I must collect my materials.” 

A moment after he reappeared, bringing in his 
arms brushwood, and also a travelling-rug which 
his servant had brought him. 

Tie got on his knees in front of the rock, prepared 
the fagots, and lighted them with a match. When 
the flame began to flicker on the rustic hearth Ma- 
dame de Tecle trembled with joy, and held out botli 
hands to the blaze. 


180 


CAMOhS. 


“Heavens! how nice it is!” she said; “and then 
this is so amusing; one would say we had been sliip- 
^vrecked. Now, Monsieur, if you would be perfect 
go and see what Du Rocher reports.” 

He ran there. When he returned ho could not 
avoid stopping half way to admire the elegant and 
simple silhouette of the young woman, defined sharply 
against the blackness of the wood, her fine Arab 
countenance slightly illuminated by the firelight. 
The moment she saw him — 

“ Well !” she cried. 

“ A great deal of hope.” 

“ Oh ! what happiness. Monsieur !” She pressed 
his hand. 

“ Sit down there,” she said. 

He sat down on a rock contiguous to hers, and re- 
plied to her eager questions. He repeated in detail 
his conversation with the Doctor, and showed her in 
detail the properties of belladonna. She listened at 
first with interest, but little by little, wrapping her 
liead in her veil and resting it on the boughs inter- 
laced behind her, she seemed to be uncomfortably 
resting from fatigue. 

“You are apt to fall asleep there,” he said, laugh- 
ing. 

“ Quite so,” she murmured — smiled, and went to 
sleep. 

Her sleep resembled death, it was so profound, 
and so calm was the beating of her heart, so regular 
her breathing. 

Camors knelt down again by the heartli, to listen 


C A MORS. 


181 


breatlilessly and to gaze upon her. From time to 
time lie seemed to meditate, and the solitude was 
only disturbed by the rustling of the leaves, llis 
eyes followed the flickering of the flame, sometimes 
resting on the white rock, sometimes on the grove, 
sometimes on the arches of the high trees, as though 
he wished to fix in his memory all the details of this 
sweet scene. Then his gaze would again rest on the 
young woman, clothed in her beauty, grace, and 
confiding repose. 

What heavenly thoughts descended at that mo- 
ment on this sombre soul — what hesitation, what 
doubt assailed it? AVhat images of peace, truth, 
virtue, and happiness passed into that brain full of 
storm, and chased away the phantoms of the sophis- 
tries he cherished ? He himself knew, but never 
told. 

The brisk crackling of the wood awakened her. 
She opened her eyes in surprise, and as soon as she 
saw the young man kneeling before her, addressed 
him — 

“ How are they now. Monsieur ?” 

He did not know how to tell her that for the last 
hour he had had but one thought, and that was of 
her. Du Rocher appeared suddenly before them. 

“They are saved, Madame,” said the old man 
brusquely; “ come quickly, embrace them, and return 
home, or we shall have to cure you to-morrow. Yon 
are very imprudent to have i*emained in this damp 
wood, and it was absurd of iMonsieur to let you do 


182 


CAMOliS. 


She took the arm of the old Doctor, smiling, and 
re-entered the hut. The two children, now i*oused 
from the dangerous torpor, but who seemed still ter- 
rified by the threatened death, raised their little 
round heads. She made them a sign to keep quiet, 
and leaned over their pillow smiling upon them, and 
printed two kisses on their golden curls. 

“To-morrow, my angels,” she said. But the 
mother, half laugliing, half crying, followed Madame 
de Tecle step by step, speaking to her, and kissing 
her garments. 

“ Let her alone,” cried the old Doctor querulously. 
“ Go home, Madame. M. de Camors, take her 

there.” 

She was going out, when the man, who had not be- 
fore spoken, and who was sitting in the corner of 
his hut as if stupified, rose suddenly, seized the arm 
of Madame de Tecle, who, slightly terrified, turned 
round, for the gesture of the man was so violent as 
to seem menacing ; his eyes, hard and dry, were 
fixed upon her, and he continued to squeeze her arm 
with a contracted hand. 

“ My friend,” she said, although rather uncertain. 

“Yes, your friend,” muttered the man with a liol- 
low voice ; “ yes, your friend.” 

He could not continue, his mouth worked as if in 
a convulsion, his frightful weeping shook his frame ; 
he then threw himself on his knees, and they saw a 
shower of tears force themselves through the hands 
clasped over his face. 

“Take her away, Monsieur,” said the old Doctor. 


CAMORS. 


183 


Camors gently piishf^d her out of the hut and fol- 
lowed her. She took his arm and descended the 
rugged path which led to her home. 

It was a walk of twenty minutes from the wood. 
Half the distance was passed over without inter- 
changing a word. Once or twice, when tlie rays of 
llie moon pierced through the clouds, Camors tliouglit 
he saw her wipe away a tear with the end of 1km- 
glove. He guided her cautiously in the darkness, 
although the light step of the young woman was 
scarcely slower in the obscurity. Her springy step 
pressed noiselessly the fallen leaves — avoided witli- 
out assistance the ruts and marshes, as thougli en- 
dowed wilh a magical clairvoyance. When they 
reached a cross-road, and Camors seemed uncertain, 
she would indicate the way by a slight pressure of 
the arm. Both were no doubt embarrassed by tlie 
long silence — it was Madame de Tecle who first 
broke it. 

“You have been very good this evening. Mon- 
sieur,'’ she said in a low and slightly agitated voice. 

“ I love you so much !” said the young man. 

He pronounced these simple words in such a deep 
impassioned tone that Madame de Tecle trembled 
and stood still in the road. 

“ Monsieur de Camors !” 

“What, Madame?” he demanded, in a strange 
tone. 

“ Heavens ! — in fact — nothing !” said she, “ for 
this is a declaration of friendship, I suppose — and 
your friendship gives me much pleasure.” 


184 


CAMORS. 


He let go her arm at once, and in a hoarse and 
angry voice said — “ I am not your friend !” 

“ What are you then, Monsieur ?” 

Her voice was calm, but she recoiled a few steps, 
and leant against one of the trees which bordered 
the road. The explosion so long pent up burst 
forth, and a flood of words poured from the young 
man’s lips with inexpressible impetuosity. 

“ What I am I know not ! I no longer know if 1 
am myself — if I am dead or alive — if I am good or 
bad — if I am dreaming or waking. Oh, Madame, what 
I wisli is that the day may never rise again — that 
this night would never finish — that I should wish to 
feel always — always — in my head, my heart, my 
entire being — that which I now feel, near you — of 
you — for you ! I should wish to be stricken with 
Goine sudden illness, without hope, in order to be 
watched and wept for by you, like those children — 
and to be embalmed in your tears : and to see you 
bow.ed down in terror before me is horrible to me ! 
By the name of your God, whom you have made mo 
respect, I swear you are sacred to me — the child in 
the arms of its mother is not more so !” 

“ I have no fear,” she murmured. 

“ Oh, no ! — have no fear !” he repeated in a tone of 
voice infinitely softened and tender. “ It is I who am 
afraid — it is I wlio tremble — yon see it ; for since 1 
have spoken, all is finished. I expect nothing more — 
I hope for nothing — this night has no possible to- 
morrow. I know it. Your husband I dare not be — 












« 


V 












. -ik 




' r 


I ' 






I 


s 


« 




I 



CAMORS. 


185 


your lover I should not wish to be. I ask nothing 
of you — understand well ! I should like to burn 
my heart at your feet, as on an altar — this is all. 
Do you believe me ? Answer ! Are you tranquil ? 
Are you confident? Will you hear me? May I 
tell you what image I carry of you in the secret 
recesses of my heart ? Dear creature that you are, 
you do not — ah, you do not know how great is your 
worth ; and I fear to tell you, so much am I afraid 
of stripping you of your charms, or one of your 
virtues. If you had been proud of yourself, as you 
have a right to be, you would be less perfect, and I 
should love you less. But I wish to tell you how 
lovable and how charming you are. You alone 
do not know it. You alone do not see the soft flame 
of your large eyes — the reflection of your heroic 
soul on your young but serene brow. Your 
charm is over everything you do — your slightest 
gesture is engraven on me. Into the most ordi- 
nary duties of every-day life you carry a peculiar 
grace, like a young priestess who recites her daily 
devotions. Your hand, your touch, your breath 
])urifies everything — even the most humble and tlio 
most wicked beings — and myself first of all ! 

“ Oh, how I am astonished at the words which I 
pronounce, and the sentiments which animate me, 
to whom you have made clear new truths. Yes, all 
the rhapsodies of the poets, all the loves of the 
martyrs, I comprehend in your presence. This is 
ruth itself I understand those who died for their 


CA310BS. 


faith by the torture — because I should like to suffer 
for you — because I believe in you — because I respect 
you — I cherish you — I adore you !” 

He stopped, shivering, and half prostrating him- 
self before her, seized the end of her veil and 
kissed it. 

“Now,” fontinued he with a kind of grave sa<l- 
ness, “ go, Madame, I have forgotten too long you 
require repose. Pardon me — proceed. I shall fol- 
low you at a distance, until you reach your home, 
to protect you — but fear nothing from me.” 

Madame de Tecle had listened, without once inter- 
rupting him even by a sigh. Words would only ex- 
cite the young man more. Probably she understood, 
for the first time in her life, one of those songs of 
love — one of those hymns living with passion, which 
every woman wishes to hear before she dies. Should 
she die because she had heard it? She remained 
without speaking, as though just awakening from a 
dream, and let fall this word, soft and feeble like a 
sigh, “My God!” After another pause she ad- 
vanced a few steps on the road. 

“ Give me your arm as far as my house, Monsieur,” 
she said. 

He obeyed her, and they continued their walk 
toward the house, the lights of which they soon 
saw. They did not exchange a word — only as they 
reached the gate, 'Madame de T6cle turned and 
made him a slight gesture with her hand, in sign of 
adieu. In return, M. de Camors bowed low, and 
withdrew. 


CAMORB. 


IBl 


CHAPTER X. 

A STRANGE COMPACT. — THE PROLOGUE OF THE 
TRAGEDY. 

The Count de Camors had been sincere. When 
true passion surprises the human soul, it breaks 
down all resolves, sweeps away all logic, and crushes 
all calculations. 

In this lies its grandeur, and also its danger. It 
suddenly seizes on you, as the ancient god inspired 
the priestess on her trij^od — speaks through your 
lips, utters words you scarce comprehend, falsifies 
your thoughts, confounds your reason, and betrays 
your secrets. When this sublime folly possesses 
you, it elevates you — it transfigures you. It can 
suddenly convert a common man into a poet, a 
coward into a hero, an egotist into a martyr, and 
Don Juan himself into an angel of purity. 

With women — and it is to their honor — this meta- 
morphose can be durable, but it is rarely so with 
men. Once transported to this stormy sky, women 
frankly accept their proper home, and the vicinitji 
of the thunder does not disquiet them. 

Passion is their element — they feel at home there. 
There are few women worthy of the name who are 
not ready to put in action all the words which pas- 


188 


CAMORS. 


sion has caused to bubble from their lips. If they 
speak of flight, they are ready for exile.. If they 
talk of dying, they are ready for death. Men are 
far less consistent with their ideas. 

It was not until late the next morning that 
Camors regretted his outbreak of sincerity; for, 
during the remainder of the night, still filled with 
his excitement, agitated and shaken by the passage 
of the god, sunk into a confused and feverish reve- 
rie, he was incapable of reflection. But when, on 
awakening, he surveyed the situation calmly and by 
the plain light of day, and thought over the preceding 
evening and its events, he could not fail to recognize 
the fact that he had been cruelly duped by his own 
nervous system. To love Madame de T6cle was per- 
fectly proper, and he loved her still — for she was a 
person to be loved and desired — but to elevate that 
love or any other as the master of his life, instead of its 
plaything, was one of those weaknesses interdicted 
by his system more than any other. In fact, he felt he 
had spoken and acted like a school-boy on a holiday. 
He had uttered words, made promises, and taken 
engagements on himself which no one demanded of 
him. No conduct could have been more ridiculous. 
Happily nothing was lost. He had yet time to give 
his love that subordinate jjlace which this sort of 
phantasy should occupy in the life of man. He had 
been imprudent; but this very imprudence might 
finally prove of service to him. All that remained 
of this scene was a declaration — gracefully made, 
spontaneous, natural — which subjected Madame de 


CA RS 


189 


T6cle to the double charm of a mystic idolati*y 
which pleased her sex, and to that manly violence 
which could not displease her. 

He had, therefore, nothing to regret — although he 
certainly would have preferred, taking the point of 
view from his principles, to have displayed less 
childish weakness. 

But what course should he now adopt? Nothing 
could be more simple. He would go to Madame de 
Tecle — implore her forgiveness — throw himself again 
at her feet, promising eternal respect, and succeed. 
Consequently, at about ten o’clock, M. de Camors 
wrote the following note : 

“ Madame : 

“ I cannot leave without telling you adieu, and 
once more demanding your forgiveness. 

“ Will you permit me 

“ Camors.” 

This letter he was about despatching, when he 
received one containing the following words: 

“ I shall be happy. Monsieur, if you will call upon 
me to-day, about four o’clock. 

“ Elise de Tecle.” 

Upon which M. de Camors threw his own note in 
the lire, as entirely superfluous. 

No matter what interpretation he put upon this 
note, it was an evident sign that love had triumphed 


190 


CAM0R8. 


and that virtue was defeated; for, after what had 
passed the previous evening between Madame de 
Teole and himself, there was only one course for a 
virtuous womai to take ; and that was never to see 
him again. To see him was to pardon him — to par 
don him was to surrender herself to him, with oi 
without circumlocution. Camors did not allow him- 
self to deplore any further an adventure whicli liad 
so suddenly lost its gravity. He soliloquized on 
the weakness of women. He thought it bad taste in 
Madame de T^cle not to have maintained longer the 
high ideal his innocence had created for her. Antici- 
pating the disenchantment which follows possession, 
he already saw her deprived of all her prestige, 
and ticketed in the museum of his amorous sou- 
venirs. 

Nevertheless, when he approached her house, and 
had the presentment of her approving presence, he 
was troubled. Doubt and anxiety assailed him. 
When he saw through the trees the window of her 
room, his heart throbbed so violently that he had 
to sit down on the root of a tree for a moment. 

“ I love her like a madman !” he murmured ; then 
leaping up suddenly, he exclaimed, “ But she is only 
a woman after all — I shall go on !” 

For the first time Madame de Tecle received him 
in her own apartment. This room M. de Camors 
had never seen. It was a large and lofty apartment, 
draped and furnished in sombre tints. 

In the midst of it were gilded mirrors, bronzes, 
engravings, and old family jewelry lying on tables— 


C A MORS. 


191 


tlie whole presenting the appearance of the orna- 
mentation of a church. 

In this severe and almost religious interior, how- 
ever rich, reigned a vague odor of flowers; and there 
were also to be seen boxes of lace, drawers of per- 
fumed linen, and that atmosphere which ever accom- 
panies refined women. 

But every one has her personal individuality, and 
forms her own atmosphere which fascinates her lover. 
Madame de T5cle, finding herself almost lost in this 
very large room, had so arranged some pieces of fur- 
niture as to make herself a little private nook near 
the chimney-piece, which her daughter called “ My 
mother’s chapel.” It was there Camors now per- 
ceived her, by the soft light of a lamp, sitting in an 
armchair, and, contrary to her custom, having no 
work in her hands. She appeared calm, though two 
livid circles surrounded her eyes. She had evidently 
sufiered much, and wept much. 

On seeing this dear face, worn and haggard with 
grief, Camors forgot the neat phrases he had pre- 
pared for his entrance. He forgot all except that he 
really adored her. 

He advanced hastily toward her, seized in his two 
hands those of the young woman, and without 
speaking interrogated her. eyes with tenderness and 
profound pity. 

“It is nothing,” she said, withdrawing her hand 
and bending her pale face gently ; “ I am better ; I 
may even be very happy, if you wish it.” 

There was in the smile, the look, and the accent 


192 


CAMORS. 


of Madame de Tccde somcUiing indefinable, which 
froze the blood of Camors. 

He felt confusedly that she loved him, and yet was 
lost to him ; that he had before him a species ol’ 
being he did not understand, and that this woman, 
saddened, broken, and lost by Ibve, yet loved some- 
thing else in this world better even than that love. 

She made him a slight sign, which he obeyed like 
a child, and he sat down beside her. 

“ Monsieur,” she said to him, in a voice tremulous 
at first, but which grew stronger as she proceeded, 
“ I heard you last night perhaps with a little too 
much patience. I shall now, in return, ask from you 
the same kindness. You have told me that you love 
me. Monsieur ; and I avow frankly that I entertain 
a lively affection for you. Such being the case, we 
must either separate forever, or unite ourselves by 
the only tie worthy of us both. To part: — that will 
afflict me much, and I also believe it would occasion 
much grief to you. To unite ourselves : — for my own 
part. Monsieur, I would be willing to give you my 
life; but I cannot do it, I cannot wed you without 
manifest folly. You are younger than I am; and as 
good and generous as I believe you to be, simple 
reason tells me that by so doing I should bring bit- 
ter repentance on myself. But there is yet another 
reason. I do not belong to myself, I belong to my 
daughter, to my family, to my past. In giving up 
my name for yours I would wound, I would (wuelly 
afflict all the friends who surround me, and, I be- 
lieve, some who exist no longer. Well, Monsieur,” 


CAMORS. 


193 


^he continued, with a smile of celestial grace and 
resignation, “I have discoxcred a way by which we 
yet can avoid breaking oft' an intimacy so sweet to 
both of us — in fact, to make it closer and more dear. 
My proposal may surprise you, but have the kind- 
ness to think over it, and do not say no, at once.” 

She glanced at him, and was terrified at the pallor 
which overspread his face. She gently took his 
hand, and said — 

“ Have patience !” 

“ Speak on !” he muttered hoarsely. 

“ Monsieur,” she continued, with her smile of an- 
gelic charity, “ God be praised, you are quite young; 
in our society men situated as you are do not marry 
early, and I think they are right. Well, then, this 
is what I wish to do, if you will allow me to tell you. 
I wish to blend in one affection the two strongest sen- 
timents of my heart ! I wish to concentrate all my care, 
all my tenderness, all my joy on forming a wife worthy 
of you — a young soul who will make you a happy, 
a cultivated intellect of which you can be proud. I 
will promise you. Monsieur, I will swear to you, to 
consecrate to you this sweet duty, and to consecrate 
to it all that is best in myself. I shall devote to it all 
my time, every instant of my life, as to the holy 
work of a saint. I swear to you that I shall be very 
happy if you only tell me that you will consent to 
this.” 

Ilis answer was an impatient exclamation of irony 
and anger : then he spoke — 

“You will pardon me, Madame,” he said, “if so 


194 


CAMOSS. 


Budden a change in my sentiments cannot be as 
prompt as your wish.” 

Slie blushed sliglitly. 

“ Yes,” she said, with a faint smile ; “ I can under- 
stand that the idea of my being your mother-iu-hiw 
may seem strange to you; but in some years, even in 
a very few years’ time, I shall be an old woman, and 
then it will seem to you very natural.” 

To consummate her mournful sacrifice, the pool 
woman did not shrink from covering herself, even in 
the presence of the man she loved, with the mantle 
of old age. 

The soul of Camors was a perverted, not a base 
one, and was suddenly touched at this simple hero- 
ism. He rendered it the greatest homage he could 
pay, for his eyes suddenly filled with tears. She ob- 
served it, for she watched with an anxious eye the 
slightest impression she produced upon him. So 
she contiiied more cheerfully — 

“ And see. Monsieur, how this will settle every- 
thing. In this way we can continue to see each 
other without danger, because your little affianced 
wife will be always between us. Our sentiments 
will soon be in harmony with our new thoughts. 
Even your future prospects, which are now also mine, 
will encounter fewer obstacles, because I shall push 
them more openly, without revealing to my uncle 
what ought to remain a secret between us two. I 
can let him suspect my hopes, and that will enlisi 
him in your service. Above all, I repeat to you that 


VAMORS. 


196 


this will insure my happiness. Will you thus accept 
my maternal affection ?” 

]VL de Camors, by a powerful effort of will, had re* 
covered his self-control. 

“ Pardon me, Madame,” he said, with a faint smile, 
“ but I would wish at least to preserve honor. What 
do you ask of me ? Do you yourself fully compre- 
hend ? Have you reheeted well on this ? Can either 
of us contract, without imprudence, an engagement 
of such a delicate nature for so long a time ?” 

“ I demand no engagement of you,” she replied, 
“for I feel that would be unreasonable. I only 
pledge myself as far as I can, without compromising 
the future fate of my daughter. I shall educate her 
for you. I shall, in my secret heart, destine her for 
you, and it is in this light I shall think of you for 
tlie future. Grant me this. Accept it like an honest 
man, and remain single. This is probably a folly, 
but I risk my repose upon it. I will i*un all the risk, 
because I shall have all the joy. I have already had 
a thousand thoughts on this subject, which I cannot 
yet tell you, but which I shall confess to my God this 
night. I believe — I am convinced that my daugh- 
ter, when I have done all that I can for her, will 
make an excellent wife for you. She will benefit 
you, and be an honor to you, and will, I hope, one 
day thank me with all her heart ; for I perceive al- 
ready what she wishes, and what she loves. You 
cannot know, you cannot even suspect — but I — I 
know it. There is already a woman in that child, 


CAMORS. 


iim 

and a very charming woman — much more charming 
llian her mother, Monsieur, I assure you.” 

Madame de Tecle stopped suddenly, the door 
opened, and Mile. Marie entered the room brusquely, 
nolding in each hand a gigantic doll. 

M. Camors rose, bowed gravely to her, and bit his 
lip to avoid smiling, which did not altogether escape 
Madame de Tecle. 

“Marie!” she cried out, “really you are absurd 
with your dolls !” 

“ My dolls ! I adore them !” replied Mile. Marie 

'^‘You are absurd. Go away with your dolls,^ 
said her mother. 

“Not without embracing you,” said the child. 

She laid her dolls on the carpet, sprang on hei 
mother’s neck, and kissed her on both cheeks pas- 
sionately, after which she took up her dolls, saying 
to them — 

“ Come, my little dears !” and left the room. 

“ Good heavens !” said Madame de Tecle, laugh- 
ing, “ this is an unfortunate incident ; but I still in- 
sist, and I implore you to take my word. She will 
have sense, courage, and goodness. Now,” she con- 
tinued in a more serious tone, “ take time to think 
over it, and return to give me your decision, should 
it be favorable. If not, we must bid each other 
adieu.” 

“ Madame,” said Camors rising and standing be- 
fore her, “ I will promise never to address a word to 
you which a son might not utter to his mother. I0 
it not this which you demand ?” 


OAMoJiH. 


19 ^ 


Madame do Tecle fixed upon him for an instant 
her beautiful eyes, full of joy and gratitude, then 
suddenly covered her face with her two hands. 

“ Thanks,” she murmured, “ I am very happy !” 
She extended her hand, wet with her tears, which he 
took and pressed to his lips, bowed low, and left the 
room. 

If there ever was a moment in his fatal career 
when the young man was really worthy of admira- 
tion, it was this. His love for Madame de Tecle, 
liowever unworthy of her it might be, was never- 
theless great. It was the only true passion he had 
ever felt. At the moment when he saw this love, 
the triumph of which he thought certain, escape him 
forever, he was not only wounded in his pride but 
was crushed in his heart. Yet he took the stroke 
like a gentleman. His agony was well borne. His 
first bitter words, checked at once, alone betrayed 
what he suffered. 

He was as pitiless for his own sorrows as he sought 
to be for those of others. He indulged in none of 
tlie common injustice habitual to discarded lovers. 

He recognized the decision of Madame de T^cle 
as true and final, and was not tempted for a moment 
to mistake it for one of those equivocal arrangements 
by which women sometimes deceive themselves, and 
of which men always take advantage. He saw that 
the sacred refuge he had sought was inviolable. He 
neither argued nor protested against her resolves. 
He submitted to it, and nobly kissed the noble hand 
which smote him. As to the miracle of courage. 


198 


CAMORS. 


chastit3y, and faith by which Madame de T^cle had 
transformed and purified her love, he cared not to 
dwell upon it. This example, which opened to his 
view a divine soul, naked, so to speak, destroyed his 
theories. One word which escaped him, while pass- 
ing to his own house, proved the judgment which he 
passed upon it, from his own point of view. “Very 
childish,” he muttered, “ but sublime !” 

On returning home Camors found a letter from 
General Campvallon, notifying him that his marriage 
with Mile. d’Estrelles would take place in a few days, 
and inviting him to be present. The marriage was 
to be strictly private, with only the family to assist 
at it. 

Camors did not regret this invitation, as it gave 
him the excuse for some diversion in his thoughts, 
of which he felt the need. He was greatly tempted 
to leave at once to diminish his sufferings, but con- 
quered this weakness. The next evening he passed 
at M des Rameures; and though his heart was 
bleeding, piqued himself on presenting an unclouded 
brow and an inscrutable smile to Madame de Tech'. 
He announced the brief absence he intended, and 
explained the reason. 

“ You will present my best wishes to the General,” 
said M. des Rameures. “ I hope he may be happy, 
but I confess I doubt it devilishly.” 

“ I shall bear your good wishes to the General, 
Monsieur.” 

“ The deuce you will ! Ex-ceptis excipiendis^ I 
hope,” responded the old gentleman, laughing. 


CAMOnS. 


199 


As for Madame de Tecle, to toll of all the delicate 
attentions and exquisite delicacies, that the tender 
female spirit knows so well how to apply to heal the 
wounds it has inflicted — how gracefully she glided 
into her maternal relation with Camors — to tell all 
this would require a pen wielded by her own soft 
hands. 

Two days later M. de Camors left Keuilly for 
Paris. The morning after his arrival, he i-epaired at 
an early hour to the General’s house, a magnificent 
hotel in the rue Vanneau. The marriage contract 
was to be signed that evening, and the civil and 
religious ceremony was to take place next morning. 

Camors found the General in a state of extraordi- 
nary agitation, pacing up and down the three saloons 
which formed the rez-de-chauss'ee of the hotel. The 
moment he perceived the young man entering — 
“ Ah, it is you !” he cried, darting a ferocious glance 
upon him. “ By my faith, your arrival is fortunate.” 

“ But, General !” 

“ Well, what ! Why do you not embrace me ?” 

“ Certainly, General !” 

“ Very w^ell ! It is for to-morrow, you know !” 

“ Yes, General.” 

Sacre hleii ! You are very cool! You are! 
Have you seen her?” 

“ Not yet, General. I have just arrived.” 

“ You must go and see her this morning. Yon 
owe her this mark of interest ; and if you discover 
anything, you must tell me.” 

But what should I discover. General ?” 


200 


CAMOnS. 


“ Dame ! How do I know ? But you understand 
women much better than I do ! Does she love me, 
or does she not love me ? You understand, I have 
no pretensions to turning her head, but still I do not 
wish to be an object of repulsion to her. Nothing 
has given me reason to suppose so, but the young 
girl is so reserved, so impenetrable.” 

“ Mile. d’Estrelles is naturally cold,” said Camors. 

“Yes,” responded the General. “Yes, and in 
some respects I — But, really now, should you dis- 
cover anything, I rely on your communicating it ta 
me. And stop ! — when you have seen her, have the 
kindness to return here, for a few moments — will 
you ? You will greatly oblige me !” 

“ Certainly, General, I shall do so.” 

“ For my part, I love her like a fool 

“ That is only right. General !” 

“ Hum — and what of Des Rameures ?” 

“I think we shall agree. General !” 

“ Bravo ! we shall talk more of this later. Go 
and see her, my dear child !” 

Camors proceeded to the rue St. Dominique.^ 
where Madame de la Roche-Jugan resided. 

“Is my aunt in, Joseph ?” he inquired of the ser- 
vant whom he found in the antechamber, very busy 
in the preparations which the occasion demanded. 

“Yes, M. le Comte, Madame la Comtesse is in 
and will see you.” 

“ Very well,” said Camors ; and directed his stt ps 
toward his aunt’s chamber. But this chamber was 
no longer hers. This worthy woman had insisted 


CAMOES. 


201 


on giving it up to Mile. Charlotte, for whom she 
manifested, since she had become the betrothed of 
seven hundred thousand francs income of the Gen- 
eral, the most humble deference. Mile. d’Estrellea 
had accepted this change with a disdainful indiffer- 
ence. Oamors, who was ignorant of this change, 
knocked therefore most innocently at the door. 
Obtaining no answer, he entered without hesitation, 
lifted the curtain which hung in the doorway, and 
was immediately arrested by a strange spectacle. 
At the other extremity of the room, facing him, was 
a large mirror, before which stood Mile. d’Estrelles. 
Her back was turned to him. 

She was dressed, or rather draped, in a sort of 
dressing-gown of white cashmere, without sleeves, 
which left her arms and shoulders bare. Her au- 
burn hair was unbound and floating, and fell in 
heavy masses almost to her feet. One hand rested 
lightly on the toilet-table, the other held together 
over hei bust the folds of her dressing-gown. 

She was gazing at herself in the glass, and weep- 
ing bitterly. 

The tears fell drop by drop on her white, fresh 
bosom, and glittered there like the drops of dew 
which one sees shining in the morning on the shoul 
ders of the marble nymphs in the gardens. 

Then Camors quietly dropped the curtains of the 
entrance, and noiselessly retired, taking with him, 
nevertheless, an eternal souvenir of this stolen visit. 
He made inquiries ; and Anally received the em- 
braces of bis aunt, who had taken refuge in the 


202 


CAMORS. 


chamber of her son, whom she had put in the little 
chamber formerly occupied by Mile. d’Estrelles. 
His aunt, after the first greetings, introduced her 
nepliew into the saloon, where were disidayed all 
the pomps of the corheille. Cashmeres, laces, veh 
vets, silks of the finest quality, covered the chairs. 
On the chimney-piece, the tables, and the consoles 
were strewn the jewel-cases. 

While Madame de la Roche was exhibiting to 
Camors these magnificent things — of which she failed 
not to give him the prices — Charlotte, who had been 
notified of the Count’s presence, entered the saloon. 

Her face was not only serene — it was joyous. 
“ Good-morning, my cousin !” she said gayly, ex- 
tending her hand to Camors. “How very kind of 
you to come ! Well, you see how the General spoils 
me?” 

“This is the corheille of a princess. Mademoi- 
selle !” 

“ And it you knew, Louis,” said Madame de la 
Roche, how well all this suits her ! Dear child ! 
you would suppose she had been born to a throne ! 
However, you know she is descended from the kings 
of Spain.” 

“ Dear aunt !” said Mademoiselle, kissing her on 
the forehead. 

“You know, Louis, that I wish her to call me 
aunt now ?” said the Countess, afiecting the plaintive 
tone, which she thought the highest expression of hu 
man tenderness. 

“Alq w4ee4r’ si^i4 Cq-moi’s 











■ ••■ V> i: -^^<5 





CAMORS. 


203 


“ Let us see, little thing ! only try on your coronet 
before your cousin.” 

“It will give me pleasure, my cousin,” replied 
Charlotte in a voice harmonious and grave, but not 
untouched with irony; “your slightest wishes are 
commands.” 

There was in the midst of the jewelry which en- 
cumbered the saloon a full Marquise’s coronet set in 
precious stones and pearls. The young girl adjusted 
it on her head before the glass, and then stood near 
Camors with her majestic composure. 

“ Look !” she said ; and he gazed at her bewil- 
dered, for she looked wonderfully beautiful and 
proud under her coronet. 

Suddenly she darted a glance full into the eyes of 
the young man, and lowering her voice to a tone of 
inexpressible bitterness, said — 

“At least I sell myself very dear, do I not?” 
Then turning her back to him she commenced laugh- 
ing, and took off her coronet. 

After some further conversation Camors left, say- 
ing to himself that this adorable person promised to 
become a very dangerous one ; but not saying to him- 
self that he might profit by it. 

In conformity with his promise he returned imme- 
diately to the General, who continued to pace th( 
three saloons, and cried out as he saw him — 

“ Eh, well ?” 

“Very well indeed. General, perfect — everything 
goes on well.” 

“You have seen her?” 


204 


CAMOnS. 


“ Yes, certainly.” 

“ And she said to you — ” 

“ Not much ; but she seemed enchanted.” 

Seriously, you did not renaark anything ?” 

“ I remarked she was very lovely !” 

“ Parhleu ! and you think she loves me a little ?” 

“Assuredly, after her way — as much as she can 
love, for she has naturally a very cold disposition.” 

“ Ah ! as to that I console myself. All that 1 de- 
mand is not to be disagreeable to her. Is it not so ? 
Very well, you give me great pleasure. Now, go 
where you please, my dear boy, until this evening.” 

“ Adieu until this evening, my General !” 

The signing of the contract was marked by no 
special incident ; only when the Notary, with a low, 
modest voice read the clause by which the General 
made Mile. d’Estrelles heiress to all his fortune, 
Camors was amused at remarkipg the superb indif- 
ference of Mile. Charlotte, the smiling exasperation 
of Mesdames Bacqui^re and Van-Cuyp, and the amo- 
rous regard which Madame la Roche- Jugan threw 
at the same time on Charlotte, her son, and the No- 
tary. Then the eye of the Countess rested with a 
lively interest on the General, and seemed to say 
that it detected with pleasure in him an unhealthy 
appearance. 

The next morning, on leaving the Church of St. 
'I'homas d’Aquin, the young Marquise only exchanged 
her wedding-dress for a travelling-suit, and departed 
with her husband for Campvallon, bathed in the 


CAMOnS. 


205 


tears of Madame Roche-Jugan, whose lacliiymal 
glands were remarkably tender. 

Eight days later M. de Camors returned to Reuilly 
Paris had revived him, his nerves were stronsf asrain. 

As a practical man he took a more healthy view 
of his adventure with Madame de Tecle, and began 
to congratulate himself on its denouement. Had 
things taken a different turn, his future destiny would 
liave been compromised and deranged for him. His 
political future esptecially would have been lost, or 
indefinitely postponed, for his liaison with Madame 
de Tecle would have been discovered some day, and 
would have forever alienated the friendly feelings of 
M. des Rameures. 

On this point he did not deceive himself. Madame 
de Tecle, in the first conversation she had with him, 
confided to him that her uncle seemed much pleased 
'when she laughingly let him see her idea of marry- 
ing her daughter some day to M. de Camors. 

Camors seized this occasion to remind Madame de 
Tecle, th^t while respecting her projects for the fu- 
ture, which shfe did him the honor to form, he did 
not pledge himself to their realization; and that both 
reason and honor compelled him in this matter to 
preserve his absolute independence. 

She assented to this with her habitual sweetness. 
From this moment, without ceasing to exhibit to- 
ward him every mark of affectionate preference, she 
^ never allowed herself the slightest allusion to tlie 
dear dream she cherished. Only her tenderness for 
her daughter seemed to increase, and she devoted 


206 


GAMORS. 


herself to the care of her education with redoubled 
fervor. All this would have touched the heart of 
M. de Camors, if the heart of M. de Camors had not 
lost, in its last effort at virtue, the last trace of hu- 
manity. 

His honor set at rest by his frank avowals to 
Madame de T5cle, he did not hesitate to profit by 
the advantages of the situation. He allowed her to 
serve him as much as she desired, and she desired it 
passionately. Little by little she had persuaded her 
uncle that M. de Camors was destined by his char- 
acter and talents for a great future, and that he 
would, one day, be an excellent match for Marie ; 
that he was becoming daily more attached to agri- 
culture, which turned toward decentralization, and 
that he should be attached by firmer bonds to a 
Province which he would honor. While this was 
going on. General Campvallon brought the Marquise 
to present her to Madame de T^cle ; and in a confi- 
dential interview with M. des Rameures, unmasked 
his batteries. He was going to Italy to remain some 
time, but desired first to give in his resignation, and 
recommend Camors to his faithful electors. 

M. des Rameures, gained over beforehand, prom- 
ised his aid ; and that aid was equivalent to success. 
Camors had only to make some personal visits to 
the more influential electors : but his appearance was 
as seductive as it was striking, and he was one of 
those fortunate 7nen who can win a heart or a vot^ 
by a smile. Finally, to comply with the requisi- 
t/jons^ he estabjisfied himself for several weeks in the 


C A MORS. 


201 


chief town of the department. He made liis coui-t 
to the wife of the Prefect, sufficiently to flatter the 
functionary without disquieting the husband. The 
Prefect informed the Minister that the claims of the 
Count de Camors were pressed u*pon the department 
by an irresistible influence ; that the politics of tlie 
young Count appeared undecided and a little sus- 
picious, but that the administration finding it useless 
to oppose thought it more politic to su ->tain him. 

The Minister, not less politic than the Prefect, 
was of the same opinion. 

In consequence of this combination of circum- 
stances, M. de Camors, toward the end of his twenty- 
eighth year, was elected, at intervals of a few days, 
member of the Council-General, and deputy to the 
Corps-Legislatif. 

“You have desired it, my niece,” said M. des 
Rameures, on learning this double result — “ you 
liave desired it, and I have supported this young 
Parisian with all my influence. But I must say, he 
does not possess my confidence. 

“ May we neVer, my dear Elise, regret our triumph. 
May we never have to say with the poet : 

“ ‘ Yota Diis exaudita malignis' 

“ ‘ The evil gods have heard our vows.’ ” 


208 


OAMOBS. 


gntierluflir. 

Before entering upon the second era of this verji 
cious liistory, it may be necessary to address our 
readers — especially our female readers — a short 
prayer. We supplicate them not to be shocked if 
the truth, such as they encounter in every-day life, 
is painted for them in these pages in colors a little 
warm, though actually softened. 

To love Truth it may be necessary to veil her, but 
not to enervate hei-. The Ideal itself is but truth 
clothed in the forms of art. 

The romancer knows he has no right to calumni- 
nate his age; but he has the right to paint it truly, 
or he lias no right at all. 

He thinks he understands that his duty is to main- 
tain, even in the most delicate pictures of society, 
his judgment unbiased and his pen chaste. 

Hoping that he may fail in neither of these points, 
he ventures to say this much, and now resumes his 
recital 


CAMOliS. 


20d 


CHAPTER XI. 

TUE XEW MAN OF THE NEW EMPIRE. 

It waa row five years since the electors of Reuilly 
had sent the Count de Camors to the Corps legis- 
latif^ and they had seen no cause to regret their 
choice. He understood marvellously well their little 
local interests, and neglected no occasion of forward- 
ing them. Furthermore, if any of his constituents, 
passing through Paris, presented themselves at his 
small hotel on the rue de Vlmperatrice — it had been 
built by an architect named Lescande, as a compli- 
ment from the deputy to his old friend — they were 
received with a winning affability that sent them 
back to the , province with softened hearts. M. de 
Camors would condescend to inquire if their wives 
or their daughters had borne them company ; he 
would place at their disposal tickets for the theatres 
and passes into the Legislative Chamber ; and would 
show them his pictures and his stables. He also 
trotted out his horses in the court under their eyes. 
They found him much improved in personal ap- 
pearance, and even reported affectionately that his 
face was fuller and had lost the melancholy cast it 
used to wear. His manner, once reserved, was now 


210 


CAMOltS. 


wai mer, without any loss of dignity ; his expression^ 
once morose, was now marked by a serenity at once 
pleasing and grave. His politeness was almost a 
royal grace; for he showed to women — young or 
old, rich or poor, virtuous or otherwise — the famous 
suavity of Louis the Fourteenth. 

To his equals, as to his inferiors, his urbanity was 
perfection ; for he cultivated in the depths of his 
soul — for women, for his inferiors, for his equals, and 
for his constituents — the same utter contempt. 

He loved, esteemed, and respected only himself; 
but that self he loved, esteemed, and respected as a 
god ! In fact, he had now realized as completely as 
l)ossible, in his own person, that almost superhuman 
ideal he had conceived in the most critical hour of 
his life. 

When he surveyed himself from head to foot in 
the mental mirror before him, he was content ! 

He was truly that which he wished to be. The 
programme of his life, as he had laid it down, was 
faithfully carried out. 

By a powerful effort of his mighty will, he suc- 
ceeded in himself adopting, rather than disdaining 
in others, all those animal instincts that govern the 
vulgar. These he believed fetters which bound the 
feeble, but which the strong could use. He applied 
himself ceaselessly to the development and perfec- 
tion of his rare physical and intellectual gifts, 
only that he might, during the short passage from 
the cradle to the tomb, extract from tliem the 
greatest amount of pleasure. Fully convinced that 


CAMOnS. 


211 


a thorough knowledge of the world, delicacy of taste 
and elegance, refinement and tlie point of honor con- 
stituted a sort of moral whole which formed the true 
gentleman, he strove to adorn his person with the 
graver as well as the lighter graces. He was like a 
conscientious artist, who would leave no smallest 
detail incomplete. The result of his labor was so 
satisfactory, that M. de Camors, at the moment we 
rejoin him, was not perhaps one of the best men in 
the world; but he was beyond doubt one of the hap- 
piest and most amiable. Like all men who have 
determined to cultivate ability rather than scrupu- 
lousness, he saw all things eventuate to his satisfac- 
tion. Confident of his future, he discounted it 
boldly, and lived as if very opulent. His rapid ele- 
vation was explained by his unfailing audacity, by 
his cool judgment and neat finesse, by his great 
connection and by his moral independence. He 
had a hard theory, which he constantly expounded 
with all imaginable grace: “Humanity,” he would 
say, “ is composed of speculators !” 

Thoroughly imbued with this axiom, he had taken 
his degree in the grand lodge of financiers. Thei’e 
he at once made himself an authority by his manner 
and address ; and he knew well how to use his name, 
his political influence, and his reputation for integrity. 
Employing all these, yet never compromising one 
of them, he influenced men by their virtues, or 
their vices, with equal indifference. He was incapa- 
ble of meanness; he never wilfully entrapped a 
friend, or even an enemy, into a disastrous specula- 


212 


CAM0R8. 


tion ; only, if the venture proved unsuccessful, he 
happened to get out and leave the otliers in it. But 
in financial sjDeculations, as in battles, there must 
be what is called “ food for powder and if one be 
too anxious about this worthless pabulum, nothing 
great can be accomplished. So Caniors passed as 
one of the most scrupulous of this goodly company ; 
and his word was as potential in the region of “ the 
Rings,” as it was in the more elevated sphere of the 
Clubs and of the Turf. 

Nor was he less esteemed in the Corps Legislatif^ 
where he assumed the curious role of a working 
member until committees fought for him. It sur- 
prised his colleagues to see this elegant young man, 
with such fine abilities, so modest and so laborious — ■ 
to see him ready on the dryest subjects and with the 
most tedious reports. Ponderous laws of local inter- 
est neither frightened nor mystified him. He seldom 
spoke in the public debates, except as a reporter; 
but in the committee he spoke often, and there his 
manner was noted for its grave precision, tinged 
with irony. No one doubted he was one of tlie 
statesmen of the future ; but it could be seen he was 
biding his time. 

The exact shade of his politics was entirely un- 
known. He sat in the “ centre left polite to every 
one, but reserved with every one. Persuaded, like 
his father, that the rising generation was preparing, 
after a time, to pass from theories to revolution — 
and calculating with pleasure that the development 
of this periodical catastrophe would probably coin- 


CAJdons. 


213 


cide with his fortieth year, and open to his blas^ 
maturity a source of new emotions — he determined to 
wait and mould his political opinions according lo 
circumstances. 

His life, nevertheless, had sufficient of the agree- 
able to permit him to wait the hour of ambition. 
Men respected, feared, and envied him. Women 
adored him. 

His presence, of which he was not })rodigal, 
adorned an entertainment : his intrigues could not 
be gossiped about, being at the same time clioice, 
numerous, and most discreetly conducted. 

Passions purely animal never endure long, and his 
were most ephemeral ; but he thought it due to him- 
self to pay the last honors to his victims, and to inter 
them delicately under the flowers of his friendship. 
He had in this way made many friends among the 
Parisian women — a few only of whom detested him. 
As for the husbands — they were universally fond of 
him. 

To these elegant pleasures he sometimes added a 
furious debauch, when his imagination was for the 
moment maddened by champagne. But low com- 
pany disgusted him, and he shunned it ; he was not a 
man for frequent orgies, and economized his health, 
his enerscies, and his strenorth. His tastes were as 
thoroughly elevated as could be those of a being 
who strove to repress his soul. Refined intrigues, 
luxury in music, paintings, books, and horses — these 
constituted all the joy of his soul, of his sense, and 
of his pride. He hovered over the flowers of IV 


214 


OAMORa. 


risian elegance, as a bee in the bosom of a rose ; he 
drank in its essence and revelled in its beauty. 

It is easy to understand that M. de Camors, rel- 
ishing this prosperity, attached himself more and 
more to the moral and religious creed that assured 
it to him; that he became each day more and more 
confirmed in the belief that the testament of his 
father and his own reflection had revealed to him 
the true evangel of men superior to their species. 
He was less and less tempted to violate the rules of 
the game of life ; but among all the useless cards, to 
hold which might disturb his system, the first he 
discarded was the thought of marriage. He pitied 
himself too tenderly at the idea of losing the liberty 
of which he made such agreeable use ; at the idea of 
taking on himself gratuitously the restraints, the 
tedium, the ridicule, and even the danger of a house- 
hold. He shuddered at the bare thought of a com- 
munity of goods and interests ; and of possible pa 
ternity. 

With such views he was therefore but little dis- 
posed to encourage the natural hopes in which Mde. 
de Tdcle had entombed her love. He determined so 
to conduct himself toward her, as to leave no ground 
for the growth of her illusion. He ceased to visit 
Reuilly ; remaining there but two or three weeks in 
each year, at such time as the session of the Council- 
General summoned him to the Province. 

It is true that during these rare visits Camors 
piqued himself on rendering Mde. de T^cle and M. 
de Rameures all the duties of respectful gratitude, 


CAM0R3. 


215 


yet of avoiding all allusion to the past, of guarding 
himself so scrupulously from confidential converse, 
and of observing so cold a politeness to Mile. Marie, 
as to leave no doubt on his mind that, the fickleness 
of the fair sex' aiding him, the young mother of the 
girl would renounce her chimerical project. His 
error was great: and it may be here remarked 
that a hard and scornful skepticism may in this 
world engender as many false judgments and erro- 
neous calculations as candor, or even inexperience 
can. He believed too much in what had been wi’it- 
ten of female fickleness; in deceived lovers, who 
truly deserved to be such ; and in what disappointed 
men had judged of them. 

The truth is, women are generally remarkable for 
the tenacity of their ideas and for fidelity to their 
sentiments. Inconstancy of heart is the special at- 
tribute of man ; but he deems it his privilege as well, 
and when woman disputes the palm with him on this 
ground, he cries aloud as if the victim of a robber. 

Rest assured this theory is no paradox ; as proven 
by the prodigies of patient devotion — tenacious, in- 
violable — every day displayed by women of the 
lower classes, whose natures, if gross, retain their 
[)rimitive sincerity. Even with women of the world, 
depraved though they be by the temptations that 
assail them, nature asserts herself ; and it is no rarity 
to see them devote an entire life to one idea, one 
thought, or one affection ! Their lives do not know 
the thousand distractions which at once disturb and 
console men ; and any idea which takes hold upon 


216 


C AMORS. 


them, easily becomes fixed. Tliey dwell upon it in 
the crowd and in solitude ; when they read and while 
they sew; in their dreams and in their prayers. In 
it they live — for it they die. 

It was thus that Madame de Tecle had dwelt year 
after year on the project of this alliance with un- 
alterable fervor, and had blended the two j)ure aftec- 
tions that shared her heart in this union of h(*r 
daughter with Camors, and in thus securing tlm 
happiness of both. Ever since she had conceived 
this desire — which could only have had its birth in 
a soul as pure as it was tender — the education of lier 
child had become the sweet romance of her life. 
She dreamt of it always, and of nothing else. 

Without knowing or eren suspecting the evil traits 
lurking in the character of Camors, she still under^ 
stood that, like the great majority of the young men 
of his day, the young Count was not overburdiiued 
with principle. But she held that one of the privi- 
leges of woman, in our social system, was the eleva- 
tion of their husbands by connection with a pure sonl, 
by family affections, and by the sweet religion of the 
heart. Seeking, therefore, by making her daughter 
an amiable and lovable woman, to prepare her for the 
high mission for which she was destined, she omitted 
nothing which could improve her. What success 
rewarded her care the sequel of this narrative will 
show. It will suffice, for the present, to inform the 
reader that Mile, de Tecle was a young girl of pleas- 
ing countenance, whose short neck was placed on 
shoulders a little too high. She was not beautiful, 


CAMORS» 


217 


but extremely ])retty, well educated, ai d rniicli more 
vivacious than her mother. 

Mile. Marie was so quick-witted that her mother 
often suspected she knew the secret which concerned 
herself. Sometimes she talked too much of M. de 
('amors ; sometimes she talked too little, and assumed 
a mysterious air when others spoke of him. 

Madame de Tecle was a little disturbed by these 
eccentricities. As far as regarded the conduct of 
M. de Camors, and his more than reserved bearing, 
they annoyed her occasionally ; but when we love 
any one we are apt to interpret favorably all they 
do, or all they omit to do. Madame de Tecle readily 
attributed the equivocal conduct of the Count to 
the inspiration of a chivalric loyalty. As she be- 
lieved she knew him thoroughly, she thought he 
would avoid committing himself, or awakening pub- 
lic observation, before he had made up his mind. 

lie acted thus to avoid disturbing the repose of 
both mother and daughter. Perhaps also the large 
fortune which seemed destined for Mile, de Tecle 
might add to his scru|)les by rousing his pride. 

His not marrying was in itself a good augury, and 
his little was reaching a marriageable age. 

She therefore did not despair that some day M. de 
Camors would throw himself at her feet, and say, 
“ Give her to me !” 

If God did not intend that this delicious page 
should ever be written in the book of her destiny, 
and she was forced to marry her daughter to an- 
other, the poor woman consoled herself with the 


218 


GAMOL* 


thought that all the cares she lavished upon her 
would not be lost, and that her dear child would 
thus be rendered better and happier. 

The long months which intervened between tlie 
annual apparition of Camors at Reuilly, filled up by 
Madame de Tecle with a single idea and by tlie 
sweet monotony of a regular life, passed more rapidly 
than the Count could have imagined. His own life, 
so active and so occupied, placed ages and abysses 
between each of his periodical voyages. But Ma- 
dame de Tecle, after five years, was ever but a day 
removed from the cherished and fatal night on whicli 
her dream commenced. Since that period there had 
been no break in her thoughts, no void in her heart, 
no wrinkle on her forehead. Her dream continued 
young, like herself. But in spite of the peaceful 
and rapid succession of her days, it was not without 
anxiety she saw the approach of the season wliich 
always heralded the return of Camors. 

To the same extent as her daughter grew up she 
preoccupied herself with the impression she would 
make on the mind of the Count, and felt more sen- 
sibly the solemnity of th^ matter. 

Mile. Marie, as we have already stated, was a cun- 
ning little puss, and had not failed to perceive tliat 
her tender mother chose habitually the season of the 
convocation of the Councils-General to try a new 
style of hair-dressing for her. The same year on 
which we have resumed our recital there passed, on 
one occasion, a little scene which rather annoyed 
Madame de Tecle. She was trying a new coifliire 


CAMOES. 


219 


oil INIIlo, Mario, wliose liair was very pretty ami very 
bla(,k ; some stray and rebellious portions of which 
frustrated her mother’s efforts. 

There was one lock in particular, which in spite 
of all combing and brushing would break away from 
the rest, and fall in careless curls. Madame de Tccle 
finally, by the aid of some ribbons, fastened down 
the rebellious curl : 

“ In this way I think it will do,” she said sighing, 
and stepping back to admire the effect of her work. 

“ Don’t believe it,” said Marie, who was laughing 
and mocking. “I do not think so. I see exactly 
what will happen : the bell rings — I run out — my 
net gives way — M. de Camors walks in — my mother 
is annoyed — Tableau !” 

“ I should like to know what M. de Camors has to 
do with it ?” said Madame de T6cle. 

Her daughter threw her arms around her neck — 
“Nothing!” she said. 

Another time Madame de T6cle detected her 
speaking of M. de Camors in a tone of bitter irony. 
He was “ the great man ” — “ the mysterious person- 
age ” — “ the star of the neighborhood ” — “ the plioe- 
nix of guests in their woods ” — or simply “ the 
Prince !” 

Such symptoms were of so serious a nature as not 
to escape Madame de T^cle. 

In presence of “ the Prince,” it is true, the young 
girl lost her gayety ; but this was another cross. Her 
mother found her cold, awkward, and silent — brief, 
and slightly caustic in her replies. She feared IVL 


220 


CAMOSS. 


de Caniors would misjudge her from such ap])ear' 
ances. 

But Camors formed no judgment, good or bad ; 
Mile, de Tecle was for him only an insignificant 
little girl, whom he never thought of for a momc*nt 
in the year. 

There was, however, at this time in society a per- 
son who did interest him very much, and the more 
because against his will. This was the Marquise de 
Campvallon, nee Luc d’Estrelles. 

The General, after making the tour of Europe witli 
his young wife, had taken possession of his hotel in 
the rue Yanneau^ where he lived in great splendor. 
They resided at Paris during the winter and spring 
but in July returned to their chateau at Campval- 
lon, where they entertained in great state until the 
autumn. The General invited Madame de Tecle 
and her daughter, ever year, to pass some weeks at 
Campvallon, rightly judging he could not give his 
young wife better companions. Madame de Tecle 
cheerfully accepted these invitations, because it gave 
her an opportunity of seeing the elite of the Parisian 
world, from whom the whims of her uncle had al- 
ways isolated her. For her own part, she did not 
much enjoy it ; but her daughter, by moving in the 
midst of such style and elegance could thus elface 
some provincialisms of toilet or of language ; perfect 
her taste in the delicate and fleeting changes of the 
fashions, and acquire some additional graces. The 
young Marquise, who reigned and scintillated like a 
bright star in these high re^dons of social life, lent 


CAMORS. 


22 ) 


herself to the designs of her neighbor. She seemed 
to take a kind of maternal interest in Mile, de T6cle, 
and frequently added her advice to her example. 
She assisted at her toilet and gave the final 
touches with her own dainty hands ; and the young 
girl, in return, loved, admired, and confided in her. 

Camors also enjoyed the hospitalities of the Gen- 
eral once every season, but was not his guest as 
often as he wished. He seldom remained at Camp- 
vallon longer than a week. Since the return of the 
Marquise to France he had resumed the relations of 
a kinsman and friend with her husband and herself; 
but, while trying to adopt the most natural manner, 
he treated them both with a certain reserve, which 
astonished the General. It will not surprise the 
reader, who recollects the secret and powerful rea- 
sons which justified this circumspection. 

For Camors, in renouncing the greater ])art of 
the restraints which control and bind men in their 
relations with each other, had religiously intended 
to preserve one — the sentiment of honor. Many 
times, in the course of this life, he had felt him- 
self embarrassed to limit and fix with certainty the 
boundaries of the only moral law he wished to 
respect. 

It is easy to know exactly what is in the Bible ; 
— it is not easy to know exactly what the Code of 
Honor commands. 


222 


0AM ORA. 


CHAPTER XH. 

CIRCE. 

But there exists, nevertheless, in this code one 
article, as to which M. de Camors could not deceive 
himself, and it was that which forbade his attempt- 
ing to assail the honor of the General under penalty 
of being in his own eyes, as a gentleman, a felon and 
forsworn. He had accepted from this old man con- 
fidence, affection, services, benefits — everything which 
could bind one man inviolably to another man — if 
there, be beneath the heavens anything called honor. 
He felt this profoundly. 

Hisi conduct toward Madame de Campvallon had 
been irreproachable ; and all the more so, because 
the only woman he was interdicted from loving was 
the only woman in Paris, or in the universe, who 
naturally pleased him most. He entertained for her, 
at once, the interest which attaches to forbidden 
fruit, to the seduction of strange beauty, and to the 
mystery of an impenetrable sphinx. She was, at 
this time, more goddess-like than ever. The immense 
fortune of her husband, and the adulation which it 
brought her, had placed her on a golden car. On 


CAMORS. 


223 


this she seated herself with a gracious and native 
majest y, as though in her proper place. 

The luxury of her toilet, of her jewels, of her 
house and of her equipages, was of regal magnifi- 
cence. She blended the taste of an artist with that 
of a patrician. Her person appeared really to be 
made divine by the rays of this splendor. Large, 
blonde, graceful, the eyes blue and unfathomable, 
the forehead grave, the mouth pure and proud, it 
was impossible to see her enter a saloon with her 
light gliding step, or to see her reclining back in her 
carriage, her arms crossed over her bosom, without 
dreaming of the young immortals whose love brought 
death. 

She had even those traits of physiognomy, stern 
and wild, which the antique sculptors doubtless had 
surprised in supernatural visitations, and which they 
have stamped on the eyes and on the lips of their 
marble gods. Her arms and shoulders, perfect in 
form, seemed models, in the midst of the rosy and 
virgin snow which covered the neighboring moun- 
tains. She was truly superb and bewitching. The 
Parisian world respected as much as it admired her, 
for .she played her difficult part of young bride to an 
old man so perfectly as to avoid scandal. Without 
any pretence of extraordinary devotion, she knew 
how to join to her worldly pomps the exercise of 
charity, and all the other practices of an elegant 
piety. Madame de la Roche-Jugan, who watched 
her closely, as one watching a prey, testified herself 
in her favor; and judged her more and more worthy 


224 


CA}rons. 


of her s(wi. And Caniors, who observed lier, in 
spite of himself, with an eager curiosity, was finally 
induced to believe, as did his aunt and all the world, 
that she conscientiously performed her difficult du- 
ties, and that she found in the eclat of her life and 
the gratification of her pride a sufficient compensa- 
tion for the sacrifice of her youth, her heart, and her 
beauty ; but certain souvenirs of the past, joined to 
certain peculiarities, which he fancied he remaji ked 
in the Marquise, induced him to distrust. 

There were times, when recalling all that he had 
once witnessed — the abysses and the flame at the 
bottom of that heart — he was tempted to suspect 
under all this calm exterior many storms, and pei*- 
na})s some wickedness. It is true she never was 
with, him precisely that she was before the world. 
Tho character of their relations was marked by a 
peculiar tone. It was precisely that tone of covert 
irony adopted by two persons who desired neithei* to 
remember nor to forget. This tone, softened in the 
laj\guage of Camors by his worldly tact and his 
respect, was much more pointed, and had much moi e 
of bitterness on the side of the young woman. 

He even fancied, at times, he discovered a shade 
df coquetry under this treatment ; and this provo- 
cation, vague as it was, coming from this beautiful, 
crtld, and inscrutable creature, seemed to him a game 
fearfully mysterious, that at once attracted and dis- 
gusted him. 

This was the state of things when the C’ount 
came, according to custom, to pass the first days of 


CAM0R8. 


225 


September at the Cliatean of Campvallon, and met 
there Madame de Tecie and lief daugliter. The 
visit was a painful one, this year, for Madame de 
Tocle. Her confidence deserted her, and serious 
concern took its place. She had, it is true, fixed in 
her mind, as the last point of her hopes, the moment 
when her daughter should have reached twenty 
years of age ; and Marie was only eighteen. 

But she already had had several offers, and public 
rumor had already declared her to be engaged sev- 
eral times. 

Now, Camors could not have been ignorant of 
the rumors circulating in the neighborhood, and 
yet he did not speak. His countenance did not 
change. He was coldly affectionate to Madame de 
Tecie, but toward Marie, in spite of her beautiful 
blue eyes, like her mother’s, and her curly hair, he 
preserved a frozen indifference. For Camors had 
other anxieties, of which Madame de Tecie knew 
nothing. The manner of Madame Campvallon to- 
ward him assumed a more marked character of ag- 
gressive raillery. A defensive attitude is never 
agreeable to a woman, and Camors felt it more dis- 
agreeable than most men — being so little accustomed 
to it. 

He resolved promptly to shorten his visit at Camp- 
vallon. 

On the eve of his departure, about five o’clock in 
the afternoon, he was standing at the window, look- 
ing beyond the trees at the great black clouds sailing 
over the valley, when he heard the sound of a voice, 


E26 


CAMOBS. 


will oil liad tlie power to move him deeply— “ Monsieur 
do Camors!” He saw the Marq lise standing under 
his window. 

“ Will you walk with me ?” she added. 

He bowed and descended immediately. At the 
moment he reached her — 

“It is suffocating,” she said. “I wish to walk 
round the park and will take you with me.” 

He muttered a few polite phrases, and they com- 
menced walking, side by side, through the alleys of 
the park. 

She moved at a rapid pace, with her majestic mo- 
tion, her body swaying, her head erect. One would 
have looked for a page behind her, but she had none, 
and her long blue robe — she rarely wore short dresses 
— trailed on the sand and over the dry leaves with 
the regular rustle of silk. 

“I have distyrt'ed you, probably?” she said, after 
a moment’s pause. “ What were you dreaming of 
up there ?” 

“ Nothing — only watching the coming storm.” 

“ Are you becoming poetical, my cousin ?” 

“There is no necessity for becoming, for I already 
am infinitely so !” 

“ I do not think so. Do you leave to-morrow?” 

“ I do.” 

“ Why so soon ?” 

“ I have business elsewhere.” 

“ Very well. But Van — Vautrot — is he not 
there?” 

Vautrot was the seci-ctary of M. de Camors. 


CAMO£S. 


227 


“ Vautrot cannot do everything,” he replied. 

“By the way, I do not like your Vautrot.” 

“Nor I either. But he was recommended to me 
a. the same time by my old friend Madame d’Oilly 
as a freethinker, and by my aunt, Madame de la 
Roche- Jugan, as a religious man.” 

“ What nonsense !” 

“Nevertheless,” said Camors, “he is intelligent 
and witty, and writes a line hand.” 

“ And you ?” 

“ How ? What of me ?” 

“ Do you also write a good hand ?” 

“ I will show you, whenever you wish !” 

“ Ah ! and will you write to me ?” 

It is difficult to imagine the tone of supreme indif- 
ference and haughty persiflage with which the Mar- 
quise sustained this dialogue, without once slacken- 
ing her pace, or glancing at her companion, or chang- 
ing the proud and erect pose of her head. 

“I will write you either prose or verse, as you 
wish,” said Camors. 

“ Ah ! you know how to compose verses ?” 

“ When I am inspired !” 

“ And when are you inspired ?” 

“ Generally in the morning.” 

“ And we are now in the evening. That is not 
complimentary to me.” 

“ But you, Madame, had no desire to inspire me, 
I think.” 

“ Why not, then ? I should be happy and proud 
to do so. Do you know what I should like to put 


228 


CAMORm. 


tliore?” and she stopped suddenly before a rustic 
bridge, whicli spanned a murmuring rivulet.” 

“ I do not know !” 

“You cannot even guess?” 

“ I would like, my cousin, to put an artificial rock 
ill ere.” 

“ Why not a natural one ? In your place I should 
put a natural one !” 

“ That is an idea,” said the Marquise, and walking 
on she crossed the bridge. 

“ Ibit it really thunders. I admire thunder in the 
country. Do you ?” 

“ I prefer it at Paris.” 

“Why?” 

“ Pecause I should not hear it.” 

“You have no imagination.” 

“ I have ; but I smother it.” 

“ Very possible. I have suspected you of hiding 
your merits, and particularly from me.” 

“ Why should 1 conceal my merits from you ?” 

“ I myself <lo so. It is charming.” 

“ Jbit why ?” 

“ For charity — not to dazzle me, and in regard foi 
my repose. You are really too good, I assure you. 
Here comes the rain.” 

Large drops of rain commenced to fall on the dry 
leaves, and on the yellow sand of the alley. The 
day was dying, and the sudden shower bent down 
the boughs of the trees. 

“ We must return,” said the young woman; “this 
begins to get serious.” 


CAMORS, 


229 


Slie took, in haste, the path which led to the cha 
teau ; but after a few steps a bright flash broke 
forth over her head, the noise of the thunder re- 
sounded, and a deluge of rain fell upon the fields. 

There was fortunately, near by, a shed in which 
the Marquise and her companion could take refuge. 
It was a ruin, preserved as an ornament to the park, 
and which had formerly been the chapel of the an- 
cient chateau. It was almost as large as the village 
chapel — the broken walls almost concealed under a 
thick mantle of ivy. Its branches had pushed through 
the roof and mingled with the boughs of the old 
trees which surrounded and shaded it. The timbers 
had disappeared. The extremity of the choir, and 
the spot formerly occupied by the altar, were alone 
covered by the remains of the roof. Wheelbarrows, 
rakes, spades, and other garden tools were piled there 

The Marquise had to take refuge in the midst of 
this rubbish, in the narrow space, and her compan- 
ion followed her. 

The storm, in the mean time, increased in violence. 
The rain fell in torrents through the old walls, inun- 
dating the soil on the old vane of the church. The 
lightning flashed incessantly. Every now and then 
fragments of earth and stone detached themselves 
from the roof, and fell heavily on the choir. 

“ I find this very beautiful !” said Madame de 
Campvallon. 

“I also,” said Camors, raising his eyes to the 
crumbling roof which half protected them ; “ but I dc 
not know if we are safe here !” 


230 


CAMons. 


“ If you fear, you had better go I” said the Mar- 
quise. 

“ I fear for you.” 

“ You are too good, I assure you.” 

She took off her cap and commenced brushing it 
with her glove, to remove the drops of* rain Vliich 
had fallen upon it. After a slight pause, she sud- 
denly raised her uncovered head and cast on Camors 
one of those searching looks which prepares a man 
for an important question. 

“ Cousin !” she said, “ if you were sure that one 
of these beautiful flashes of lightning would kill you 
in a quarter of an hour, what would you do ?” 

“ Why, my cousin, naturally I should make you 
my adieux !” 

“How?” 

He looked her in the face in ten’or. “Do you 
know,” he said, “there are moments when I am 
tempted to think you a devil ?” 

“ Truly ! Well, there are times when I am tempt- 
ed to think so myself — -for example, at this mo- 
ment. Do you know what I should wish ? I wish 
I could control the lightning, and in two seconds 
you would cease to exist.” 

“For what reason ?” 

“ Because I recollect there was a man to whom I 
offered myself, and who refused me, and that this 
man still lives. And this displeases me a little — a 
great deal — passionately.” 

“ Are you serious, Madame ?” replied Camors. 

She commenced lauorhino:: 


CAM ORIS. 


231 


“ I hope you did not think so. I am. not so wick- 
ed. It was a joke — and in bad taste, I admit. But 
seriously now, iny cousin, what is your opinion ot 
me ? What kind of a woman has time made me ?” 

“ I swear to you I am entirely ignorant.” 

“Adinitting I had become, as you did me the 
honor to suppose, a diabolical person, do you think 
you had nothing to do with it? Tell me! Do you 
not believe that there is in the life of a woman a de- 
cisive hour, when the evil seed which is cast upon 
her soul may produce a terrible harvest ? Do you 
not believe this? Answer me ! And would I not 
be excusable if I entertained toward you the senti- 
ment of an exterminating angel : and that I have 
some merit in being what I am — a good woman, 
who loves you well — with a little rancor, but not 
much — and who wishes you all sorts of prosperity in 
this world and the next? Do not answer me: it 
might embarrass you, and it is useless.” 

She left her shelter, and turned her face toward 
the lowering sky to see if the storm was over. 

“ The storm is over,” she said — “ let us go.” 

She then perceived that the lower part of the 
nave was transformed into a lake of mud and water. 
She stopped at its brink, and uttered a little cry : 

“ Wha; shall I do?” she said, looking at her light 
boots. Then turning toward Camors, added : 

“ Monsieur, will you get me a boat ?” 

Camors recoiled himself from placing his foot up- 
on the greasy mud and stagnant water which filled 
the whole space of the nave. 


232 


CA^tORS. 


“ If you will wait a little,” he said, “ I shall find 
you some boots or sabots, no matter what.” 

“ It will be much easier,” she said abruptly, “ for 
you to carry me to the door ;” and without waiting 
the young man’s reply, she commenced tucking up 
her skirts carefully, and when she had finished, 
said, “ Carry me !” 

He looked at her with astonishment, and thought 
for a moment she was jesting ; but soon saw she 
was perfectly serious. 

“Of what are you afraid?” she asked. 

“ I am not at all afraid,” he answered. 

“ Is it that you are not strong enough ?” 

“ Mon Dieu ! I should think I was.” 

He took her in his arms, as in a cradle, while she 
held up her dress with both her hands. He then 
descended the steps and moved toward the door 
with his strange burden. He was obliged to be 
very careful not to slip on the wet earth, and this 
absorbed him during the first few stops ; but when 
he found his footing more sure, he felt a natural curi- 
osity to observe the countenance of the Marquise. 

The uncovered head of the young woman rested 
a little one side on the arm with which he held her. 
Her lips were slightly parted with a half-wicked 
smile that showed her fine white teeth ; the same ex- 
pression of ungovernable malice burned in her dark 
eyes, which she riveted for some seconds on those 
of Camors with persistent penetration — then sud- 
denly veiling them under the fringe of her dark 













t 








t 




« 


« 








# 


• s 


I 




• « 


f 






< y.. 





• * . 


I- 







/ 


' t 


$ 


» 






I 


V 




.1 

) 




t 






I 


* 











» 


4 


u 


4 


k 



» 


CA}£ORS. 


233 


lashes. This glance sent a thrill like lightning to 
his very marrow. 

“ Do you M ish to drive me mad ?” he murmured 

“ Who knows ?” she replied. 

The same moment she disengaged herself from 
his arms, and placing her foot on the ground again, 
left the ruin. 

They reached the chateau without exchanging a 
word. Just before entering the house the young 
Marquise turned toward Camors and said to him : 

“ Be sure that at heart I am very good, really.” 

Notwithstanding this soft assertion, Camors was 
yet more determined to 'leave next morning, as he 
previously decided. He carried away the most pain- 
ful impression of the scene of that evening. 

She had wounded his pride, inflamed his hopeless 
passion, and disquieted his honor. 

“ Who is this woman, and what does she want of 
me ? Is it love or vengeance which inspires her with 
this fiendish coquetry?” But whatever it was, 
Camors was not such a novice in similar adventures 
as not to perceive clearly the yawning abyss under 
the broken ice. He resolved sincerely to reclose it 
again between them forever. The best way to suc- 
ceed in this, avowedly was to cease all intercourse 
with the Marquise. But how could such conduct 
be explained to the General, without awaking his 
suspicion and lowering his wife in his esteem ? So 
this was impossible. He armed himself with all his 
courage, and resigned himself to endure with reso 


234 


CAMORH. 


lute soul all the trials which the love, real cr pre- 
tended, of the Marquise reserved for him. 

He had at this time a singular idea. He was a 
member of several of the most aristocratic clubs. 
He had the idea of selecting a chosen group of men 
from the Hite of his companions, to form with them 
a secret association, which would have for its object 
to fix and maintain among its members the princi- 
ples and points of honor in their strictest form. This 
society, which had only been vaguely spoken of in 
public under the name of Society des Raffines^'^ and 
also as “ The Templars ” — which latter was its true 
name — had nothing in common with the “ Devourers,” 
illustrated by Balzac. It had nothing in it of a ro- 
mantic or dramatic character. Those who composed 
Ibis club did not, in any way, defy ordinary morals, 
nor set themselves above the laws of their country. 
They did not bind themselves by any vows of mutual 
aid in extremity. They bound themselves simply 
by their word of honor to observe, in their reciprocal 
relations, the rules of purest honor. These rules 
were specified in their code. The text it is difticult 
to give ; but it was based entirely on the point of 
honor, and regulated the affairs of the club, such 
as the card-table, the turf, duelling, and gallantry. 
For example, any member was disqualified from 
belonging to this association who either insulted or 
interfered with the wife or relative of one of liis 
colleagues. The only penalty was exclusion: but 
the consequences of this exclusion were grave ; for 
all the members ceased thereafter to associate with, 


CAMORS. 


235 


recognize, or even bow to the oifender. The Tem- 
plars found in this secret society many advantages. 
It was a great security in their intercourse with 
one another, and in the different circumstances of 
daily life, where they met constantly either in the 
coulisses of the opera, in the saloons, or on the turf. 
Camors constituted an exception among his compan- 
ions and rivals in high Parisian life by the syste- 
matic decision of his doctrines. It was not so much 
an embodiment of absolute skepticism and practical 
materialism ; but the want of a moral law is so nat- 
ural to man, and obedience to higher laws so sweet 
to him, that the chosen adepts to whom the project 
of Camors was submitted, accepted it with enthusi- 
asm. They were happy in being able to substitute 
a sort of positive and formal religion for restraints 
so limited as their own confused and floating notions 
of honor. For Camors himself, as is easily under- 
stood, it was a new barrier which he wished to erect 
between himself and the passion which fascinated 
him. He attached himself to this with redoubled 
force, as the only moral bond yet left him. He 
completed his work by making the General accept 
the position of President of the Association. The 
General, to whom honor was a sort of mysterious 
but real goddess, was delighted to preside over 
the worship of his idol. He felt flattered by his 
young friend’s selection, and esteemed him tl e 
more. 

It was the middle of winter. The Marquise Camp- 
vallon had resumed for some time her usual course 


236 


CAMORa. 


of life, which was at the same time strict but elegant 
Punctual at church every morning, at the Bois and 
at charity bazaars during the day, at the opera or 
the theatres in the evening, she had received M. do 
Camors without the shadow of apparent emotion. 
She even treated him more simply and more natural 
ly than ever — no recurrence to the past, no allusion 
to the scene in the park during the storm ; as if she 
had, on that day, disclosed everything which lay 
hidden in her heart. This so much resembled indif- 
ference, that Camors ought to have been delighted ; 
but he was not — on the contrary, he was annoyed 
by it. A cruel but powerful interest, already so 
dear to his blase soul, was disappearing thus from 
his life. He was inclined to believe that Madame 
de Campvallon possessed a much less complicated 
character than he had fancied ; and that little by 
little absorbed in daily trifles, she had become in 
reality what she pretended to be — a good woman, 
inoflfensive, and contented with her lot. 

He was one evening in his orchestra-stall at the 
opera. They were playing “ The Huguenots.” The 
Marquise occupied her box between the columns. 
The numerous acquaintances Camors met in the pas- 
sages during the first e7itr*acte^ prevented his going 
as soon as usual to pay his respects to his cousin. 
At last, after the fourth act, he went to visit her in 
her box, where he found her alone, the General hav- 
ing descended to the pit for a few moments. He was 
astonished, at entering, to find the traces of tears on 
the young woman’s cheeks. Her eyes were even 


CAMORS. 237 

moist. She seemed displeased at being surprised in 
the very act of sentimentality. 

“Music always makes me nervous,” she said. 

“ Indeed !” said Camors. “You, who always re- 
proach me with hiding my merits, why do you hide 
yours ? If you are still capable of weeping, so much 
the better.” 

“No! I claim no merit for that. Oh, my God ! 
If you only knew ! It is quite the contrary.” 

“ What a mystery you are !” 

“Are you very curious to fathom this mystery? 
Only that? Very well — be happy! It is time to 
put an end to this.” 

She drew her chair from the front of tlie box out 
of public view, and, turning toward Camors, con- 
tinued : “ You wish to know what I am, what I feel, 
and what I think ; or rather, yoi( wish to know simply 
if I dream of love? Very well, I only dream of 
that ; and what is yet more, if I have or have not 
lovers, or if I never shall have lovers, it will not 
arise from virtue. I believe in nothing, but from 
self-esteem and contempt of others. These little 
intrigues, these petty passions, which I see in the 
world, make me indignant to the bottom of my soul. 
It seems to me that women, who give themselves for 
so little, must be base creatures. As for myself, I 
remember having said to you one day — it is a mil- 
lion of years since then — my person is sacred to me ; 
and to commit a sacrilege I would wish, like the 
vestals of Rome, a love as great as my crime, and 
as terrible a death. I wept just now during the 


238 


CAMORS. 


beautiful fourth act. It was not because I listened 
to the most marvellous music ever heard on this 
earth; it was because I admire and envy passion- 
ately the superb and profound love of that time. 
And it is ever thus — when I read the history of that 
fine sixteenth century, I am in ecstasies. How well 
those people knew how to love and how to die ! 
One night of love — then death. That is delightful. 
Now, my cousin, you must leave me. We are ob- 
served. They will believe we love each other, and 
as we have not that pleasure, it is useless to incur 
the penalties. Since I am still in the midst of the 
court of Charles X., I pity you with your black 
coat and round hat. Good-night.” 

“ I thank you very much,” replied Camors, taking 
the hand she extended him coldly, and left the box. 
He met IVI. de Campvallon in the passage. 

“ Parbleu ! my dear friend,” said the General, 
seizing him by the arm. “ I must communicate to 
you an idea which has been in my brain all the eve- 
ning.” 

“ What idea. General ?” 

“Well, there are here this evening a number of 
charming young girls. This set me to thinking of 
you, and I even said to my wife that we must marry 
you to one of these young people !” 

“ Oh, General !” 

“ Well, why not ?” 

‘’‘That is a very serious thing — if one makes a 
mistake in his choice — that is everything.” 

“ Bah ! it is. not so difficult a thing. TaVg a wife 


CAMORa. 


239 


like mine, who has a great deal of religion, not much 
imagination, and no fancies. This is the whole 
secret. I will tell you this in confidence, my dear 
fellow !” 

“ Well, then. General, I will think of it.” 

“ Do think of it,” said the General, in a serious 
tone ; and went to join his young wife, whom he 
understood so well. 

As to her, she thoroughly understood herself, and 
analyzed her own character with surprising truth. 

Madame de Campvallon was just as little what 
her manner indicated, as was M. de Camors on his 
side. They were both altogether exceptional in 
French society. Equally endowed by nature with 
energetic souls and minds highly gifted, both of 
them carried innate depravity to a high degree. 
The artificial atrnospliere of high Parisian civiliza- 
tion destroys in women the sentiment and the taste 
for duty, and leaves them nothing but the sentiment 
and taste for pleasure. They lose in the midst of 
this enchanted and false life, like theatrical fairy- 
land, the true idea of life in general, and Christian 
life in particular. And we can confidently affirm 
that all those who do not make for themselves, 
apart from this crowd, a kind of Thebaid — and 
there are such — are Pagans. They are Pagans, be- 
cause the pleasures of the senses and of the mind 
alone interest them, and they have not once, during 
the year, an impression of the moral law, unless the 
sentiment of maternity, which some of them detest, 
recalls it to them. They are Pagans, like the 


240 


CAMORS. 


beautiful profane Catholics of the fifteenth century — 
loving luxury, rich stuffs, beautiful, precious furni- 
ture, literature, art, themselves, and love. They 
were charming Pagans, like Marie Stuart, and capa- 
ble, like her, of finding themselves true Catholics 
under the axe. 

We are speaking, let it be understood, of the best 
of the Hite — of those that read, and of those that 
dream. As to the rest, those who participate in the 
Parisian life on its lighter side, in its childish whirl, 
and the trifling follies it entails, who make rendez- 
vous, waste their time — who dress and are busy day 
and night doing nothing — who dance frantically in 
the rays of the Parisian sun, without thought, with- 
out passion, without virtue, and even without vice — 
as to these, we must own it is impossible to imagine 
anything more contemptible. 

The Marquise de Campvallon was then — as she 
truly said to the man she resembled — a great Pagan ; 
and as she also said in one of her serious moments 
that a woman’s destiny is decided by the influence 
of those they love, Camors had sowm in her heart 
a seed which liad marvellously fructified. 

Camors dreamed little of reproaching himself for 
it, but struck with all the harmony that surrounded 
the Marquise, he regretted more bitterly than ever 
the fatality which separated them. 

He felt however more sure of himself, since he had 
bound himself by the strictest obligations of honor, 
lie abandoned himself from this moment with less • 
scruple to the emotions, and to the danger against 


VAMohf^. 


241 


which he believed himself invincibly protected. Tie 
did not fear ofteuer to seek tlie socii-iy of his beauti- 
ful cousin, and even contracted the habit of repair- 
ing to her house two or three times a week, after 
leaving the Chamber of Deputies. Whenever he 
found her alone, their conversation invariably assumed 
on both sides a tone of irony and of raillery, in which 
both excelled. He did not forget her reckless confi 
dences at the opera, and willingly recalled it to her, 
asking her if she had yet discovered that hero of 
love for whom she was looking, who should be, ac- 
cording to her ideas, a villain like Bothwell, or a 
musician like Rizzio. 

“There are,” she replied, “ villains who are also 
musicians ; but that is imagination. Sing me, then, 
something apropos.” 

It was near the close of winter. The Marquise 
gave a ball. Her fetes were justly renowned for 
their magnificence and good taste. She did the 
honors with the grace of a queen. This evening she 
had a very simple toilet, as was becoming in the 
courteous hostess. She wore a long dress of dark 
velvet, her arms were bare, without jewels, a neck 
lace of large pearls on her rose-tinted bosom, and 
for coiffure the heraldic coronet was placed on her 
fair hair. 

Camors caught her eye as he entered, as. though 
she were watching for him. He had seen her the 
previous evening, and they had had a more lively 
skirmish than usual. He was struck by her ])ril- 
liancy, — her beauty heightened, without doubt, by 


242 


CAMORS. 


the secret ardor of the quarrel, as though illuminated 
by an interior flame, with all the clear, soft splendor 
of a transparent alabaster vase. 

When he advanced to join her and salute her, 
yielding, against liis will, to an involuntary move- 
ment of passionate admiration, he said : 

“You are truly beautiful this evening. Enough 
so to make one commit a crime.” 

She looked fixedly in his eye, and replied — 

“ I should wish to see that,” and then left him, 
with superb nonchalance. 

The General approached, and tapping the Count 
on the shoulder, said— 

“ Camors ! you do not dance more than usual. 
Let ns play a game of piquet.” 

“ Willingly, General ;” and traversing two or three 
saloons they reached the private boudoir of the Mar- 
quise. It was a small oval room, very lofty, tapes- 
tried with thick red silk, covered with black and 
white flowers. As the doors were removed, two 
heavy curtains isolated it completely from the neigh- 
boring gallery. It was there that the General usu- 
ally played cards and slept during liis fttes. A 
small card-table was placed before a divan. Except 
this addition, the boudoir preserved its every-day as- 
pect. Woman’s work commenced; books, jour- 
nals, and reviews were strewn among the furniture. 
After two or three games, which the General won, 
Camors being very abstracted — 

“ I reproach myself, young man,” said the former, 
“ in having kept you so long away from the ladies. 


CAM0R8. 


24 .*! 


1 will give you back your liberty — I shall cast my 
eye on the journals.” 

“ There is nothing new in them, I think,” said 
Camors rising. He took up a paper himself, and 
placing his back against the mantelpiece, warmed 
his feet, one after the other. The General threw 
himself on the divan, ran his eye over the Moniteur 
de VArmee^ approving of some military promotions, 
and blaming others ; and, little by little, fell into a 
doze, his head resting on his chest. 

But Camors was not reading. He listened 
vaguely to the music of the orchestra, and fell into 
a reverie. Through these harmonies, the murmurs 
and warm perfume of the ball, he followed, in thought, 
all the evolutions of her who was the mistress and 
the queen of all. He saw her supple and proud step 
— he heard h^r grave and musical voice — he felt her 
breath. 

This young ipan had exhausted everything. Love 
and pleasure had no longer for him secrets or temp- 
tations ; but his imagination, cold and blase, had 
roused itself all inflamed before this beautiful, living, 
and palpitating statue. She was really for him 
more than a woman — more than a mortal. The an- 
tique fables of amorous goddesses and drunken Bac- 
chantes — the superhuman voluptuousness unknown in 
terrestrial pleasures — were in reach of his hand, 
separated from him only by the shadow of this sleep- 
ing old man. But this shadow was ever between 
them — it was honor. 

His eyes, as if lost in thought, were fixed straight 


244 


CAMokS. 


before him on the curtain which was opposite the 
chimney. All at once this curtain was noiselessly 
raised, and the young Marquise presented herself 
under the pile of curtains, her brow surmounted 
with her coronet. She threw a rapid glance over the 
boudoir, and after a moment’s pause, let the curtain 
fall gently, and advanced directly toward Camors, 
who stood stupified and immovable. She took both 
his hands, without speaking, looked at him steadily — 
throwing a rapid glance on her husband, who still 
slept — and, standing on tiptoe, offered her lips to 
the young man. 

Bewildered utterly, and forgetting all else, he 
stooped down and imprinted a kiss on her lips. 

At that very moment the General made a sudden 
movement and woke up ; but the same instant the 
Marquise was standing before him, her hands resting 
on the card-table ; and smiling upon him, she said, 
“ Good-morning, my General !” 

The General murmured a few words of apology, 
but she laughingly pushed him back on his divan. 

“ Continue your nap,” she said ; “ I have come in 
search of my cousin, for the last cotillion.” The 
(jeneral obeyed. 

She passed out by the gallery. The young man, 
})ale as a spectre, followed her. 

Passing under the curtain, she turned toward him 
with a wild light burning in her eyes. Then, before 
she was lost in the crowd, she whispered in a low, 
thrilling voice : 

“ There is the crimed 



• > i ■ ;: r-'’^f vi55 


'(■ y^'i.-t- 




^vMi 














jSa^fSSi 





‘'Va 







f 



m 







t. • ' 





• I 


/ 






I 


* « 


» 

( 


I 



» 



t 







I 


\ 


I 

• • 


( 




I 


/ 


I 


/ 


v 


» • 


I 



■ 




I 


« 


4 


I 


k 




4 





tf 


% 


I 

4i> 

- -n 






» 


I 


> 


1 



ft 


4 


» 

• I 


» 

I I 


ft 

4 • 


« 



I 







« • 




« 

f 


I 


V 


*- 1 


X 

^ I 


I 


I 

« 


S'* 


- \ 


s 

' I 


N 


f 

# 







ft. 


4 


4 


f 

« 


4 



\ ’ 


< 


I 


V 


I 


I 


V 


t 


t 


0 


t 





l« 


I 


T 


✓ 


* 


* 


I 




.t 


* 



\ 



4 


4 


I 


CAMOMS. 


245 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE FIRST ACT OF THE TRAGEDY 

C AMORS did not attempt to rejoin her, and it seemed 
to him that she also avoided him. A quarter of an 
hour later, he left the hotel Campvallon. 

He returned immediately home. A lamp was burn- 
ing in his chamber. When he saw himself in the 
glass in passing, his own face terrified him. This 
exciting scene had shaken his nerves. 

He could no longer control himself His pupil had 
become his master. The fact itself did not surprise 
him. Woman is more exalted than man in elevation 
of morals. There is no virtue, no devotion, no hero- 
ism in which she does not surpass him ; but once im- 
pelled to the verge of the abyss, she falls faster and 
lower than man. This is attributable to two causes : 
she has more passion, and she has no honor. For 
truly this honor is a reality and must not be un- 
derrated. Honor is a noble, delicate, and salutary 
habit. It elevates manly qualities. It is the pru- 
dery of man. It is sometimes a force, and always a 
grace. But to think that honor is all-sufficient ; that 
in the face of great interests, great passions, great 
trials in life, it is a support and infallible defence ; 
that it can enforce the precepts which come from on 


240 


CAM0R8. 


High — in fact that it can replace God — this is to 
commit a terrible mistake. 

It is to expose one’s self in a fatal moment to the 
loss of one’s self-esteem, and to fall all at once and 
forever into that dismal ocean of bitterness, where 
Camors at that instant was struggling in despair, 
like a drowning man in the darkness of mid- 
night. 

He abandoned himself, on this evil night, to a final 
conflict full of agony ; and he was beaten. 

The next afternoon at six o’clock he was at the 
house of the Marquise. He found her in her boudoir, 
surrounded by all her regal luxury. She was half 
buried in a fauteuil in the chimney corner, looking 
a little pale and fatigued. She received him with 
her usual coldness and self-possession. 

“ Good-day,” she said. “ How are you 

“Not very well,” replied Camors. 

“What is the matter?” 

“ I fancy that you know.” 

She opened her large eyes wide with surprise, but 
did not reply. 

“ I entreat you, Madame,” continued Camors smil- 
ing — “ no more music, the curtain is raised, and the 
drama has commenced.” 

“ Ah ! let us see that !” 

“ Do you love me ?” he continued ; “ or were you 
simply acting, to try me, last evening ? Can you, 
or will you tell me ?” ^ 

“ I certainly could, but I do not wish to do so.” 

“ I had thought you more frank.” 


CAMORS. 


241 

“ 1 have my hours.” 

“Well, then,” said Camors, “ if your hours of frank- 
ness have passed, mine have commenced.” 

“ That would be compensation,” she replied. 

“ And I will prove it to you,” continued Camors. 

“I shall make a fUe of it,” said the Marquise, 
throwing herself back on the sofa, like one who was 
making herself comfortable to enjoy an agreeable 
conversation. 

“ I love you, Madame ; and as you wish to be loved, 
I love you devotedly and unto death — enough to kill 
myself, or you !” 

“ That is well,” said the Marquise softly. 

“ But,” he continued, in a hoarse and constrained 
tone, “ in loving you, in telling you of it, in trying 
to make you share my love, I basely violate the ob- 
ligations of honor which you know of, and others 
you know not of. It is a crime, as you have said. 
I do not try to extenuate my offence. I see it, I 
judge it, and I accept it. I break the last moral tie 
that is left me ; I leave the ranks of men of honor, 
and I leave also the ranks of humanity. I have 
nothing human left except my love, nothing sacred 
but you ; but my crime elevates itself by its magni- 
tude. Well, I interpret it thus. I imagine two be- 
ings, equally free and strong, loving and valuing 
each other beyond all else, having no affection, no 
loyalty, no devotion, no honor, except toward each 
other — but possessing all for each other in a supreme 
degree. 

“I give and consecrate absolutely to you, my per- 


248 


CAM0R8. 


son, all that I can be, or may be to come, on condi 
tion of an equal return, still preserving the same 
social conventionalities, without which we should 
both be miserable. 

“Secretly united, and secretly isolated, though in 
the midst of the human herd, governing and despis- 
ing it ; uniting our gifts, our faculties, and our powers, 
our two Parisian royalties — yours which cannot be 
greater, and mine which shall become greater if you 
love me — and living thus, one for ihe other, until 
death. You have dreamed, you told me, of strange 
and almost sacrilegious love. Here it is ; only before 
accepting it, reflect well, for I assure you it is a 
sei-ious thing. My love for you is boundless. I love 
you enough to disdain and trample under foot that 
which the meanest human being still respects. I 
love you enough to And in you alone, in your single 
esteem, and in your sole tenderness, in the pride and 
madness of being yours, oblivion and consolation 
for friendship outraged, faith betrayed, and honor 
lost. But, Madame, this is a sentiment which you 
Avill do well not to trifle with. You should tlior- 
oughly understand this. Well, if you desire my 
love, if you consent to this alliance, opposed to all 
human laws, but grand and singular also, deign to 
tell me so, and I shall fall at your feet. If you dc 
not wish it, if it terrifies you, if you are not prepared 
for the double obligation it involves, tell me so, and 
fear not a word of reproach. Whatever it might 
cost me — I would ruin my life, I would leave you 


CAM0R3. 


249 


forever, and tliat which passed yesterday should be 
eternally forgotten.” 

He ceased, and remained with his eyes fixed on 
the young woman with a burning anxiety. As he 
went on speaking her air became more grave ; she 
listened to him, her head a little inclined toward 
him in an attitude of overpowering interest, throw- 
ing upon him at intervals a glance full of gloomy 
fire. A slight but rapid palpitation of the bosom, a 
scarcely perceptible quivering of the nostrils, alone 
betrayed the storm raging within her. 

“ This,” she said after a moment’s silence, “ be- 
comes really interesting ; but you intend, in no event, 
to leave this evening, I suppose ?” 

“ No,” said Camors. 

“Very well,” she replied, bowing her head in sign 
of dismissal, without ofiering her hand ; “ we shall 
see each other again.” 

“ But when ?” 

“At an early day.” 

He thought she required time for reflection, a little 
terrified doubtless by the monster she evoked ; he 
gravely saluted her and departed. . 

The next day, and on the two succeeding ones, he 
vainly presented himself at her door. 

The Marquise was dining out or dressing. 

It was for Camors a whole century of torment. 
One thought which often disquieted him revisited 
him with double ])oignancy. The Marquise did not 
love him. She only wished to revenge herself for 


250 


CAMORS. 


the past, and after disgracing would laugh at him. 
She had made him sign the contract, and then 
escaped him. In the midst of these tortures of his 
pride, his passion, instead of weakening, increased. 

The fourth day after their interview he did not go 
to her house. He hoped to meet her in the evening 
at the Viscountess d’Oilly’s, where he usually saw her 
every Friday. This lady had been the old mistress 
of the Count’s father. It was to her the Count had 
thought proper to confide the education of his son. 

Camors had preserved for her a kind of afiection. 
She was an amiable woman, whom he liked and 
laughed at. 

No longer young, she was compelled to renounce 
gallantry, which had been the chief occupation of 
her youth, and never having much taste for devotion, 
she conceived the idea of having a salon. She re- 
ceived there some distinguished men, savants and 
artists, who piqued themselves on being free-thinkers. 

The Viscountess, in order to fit herself for her new 
position, resolved to enlighten herself. She attended 
the public lectures and conferences, which began to 
be fashionable. She spoke well enough about spon- 
taneous generation. She manifested a lively surprise 
the day when Camors, who delighted in torment- 
ing her, deigned to inform her that men were de- 
scended from monkeys. 

“ Look, my friend,” she said to him, “ I cannot 
really admit that. How can you think your grand 
father was a monkey, you who are so handsome ?” 

She reasoned on everything with the same force. 


C AMORS. 


251 


Although she boasted of being a skeptic, sometimes 
in the morning she went out, concealed by a thick 
veil, and entered St. Sulpice, where she confessed 
and put herself on good terms with God, in case he 
should exist. She was rich and well connected, and 
in spite of the irregularities of her youth, the best 
people visited her house. 

Madame, de Campvallon permitted herself to be 
introduced by M. de Camors. Madame de la Roche- 
Jugan followed her there, because she followed her 
everywhere, and took her son Sigismund. On this 
evening the reunion was small. M. de Camors had 
only arrived a few moments, when he had the satis- 
faction of seeing the General and the Marquise enter. 
She tranquilly expressed to him her regret at not 
having been at home the preceding day ; but it was 
impossible to hope for a more decided explanation 
in a circle so small, and under the vigilant eye of 
Madame de la Roche- Jugan. Camors interrogated 
vainly the face of his young cousin. It was as beau- 
tiful and cold as usual. His anxiety increased ; he 
would have given his life at that moment for her to 
say one word of love. 

The Viscountess liked the play of wit, as she had 
but little herself. They played at her house such 
little games as were then fashionable. Those little 
games are not always innocent, as we shall see. 

They had distributed pencils, pens, and packages 
of paper — some of the players sitting around large 
tables, and some in separate chairs — and scratched 
mysteriously, in turn, questions and answers. Dur« 


252 


CAM0R8. 


hig this time the General played whist with Madame 
de la Roche-Jugan. Madame Campvallon did not 
usually take part in these games which fatigued 
her. Camors was therefore astonished to see her 
accept the pencil and paper offered her. 

This singularity awakened his attention and put 
him on his guard. He himself joined in the game, 
contrary to his custom, and even charged himself 
with collecting in the basket the small notes as they 
were written. 

An hour passed without any special incident. 
The treasures of wit were dispensed. The most deli- 
cate and unexpected questions — such as, “ What is 
love ?” “ Do you think that friendship can exist be- 
" tween the sexes?” “Is it sweeter to love or to be 
loved?” — succeeded each other with corresponding 
replies. All at once the Marquise gave a slight 
scream, and they saw a drop of blood trickle down 
her foi'ehead. She commenced laughing, and showed 
her little silver pencil-case, which had a pen at one 
end, with wliich she had scratched her forehead in 
her abstraction. 

The attention of Camors was redoubled from this 
moment — the more so from a rapid and significant 
glance from the Marquise, which seemed to warn 
him of an approaching event. She was sitting a 
little in shadow in one corner, in order to meditate 
more at ease on questions and answers. An instant 
later Camors was passing around the room collect- 
ing notes. She deposited one in the basket, slipping 
another into his hand with the cat-like dexterity of 


C AMORS, 


253 


her sex. In tJie midst of these papers, wliicli each 
person amused himself with reading, Camors found 
no difficulty in' retaining without remark the clan- 
destine note of the Marquise. It was written in red 
ink, a little pale, but very legible, and contained 
these words : 

“ I belong, soul, body, honor, liches, to my best- 
beloved cousin, Louis de Camors, from this moment 
and forever. 

“ Written and signed with the pure blood of my 
veins, March 5, 185-. 

“ Charloite D’Estrelles.” 

All the blood of Camors surged to Ins brain — a 
cloud came over his eyes — he rested his hand on tlie 
marble table, then suddenly his face was covered 
with a mortal paleness. These symptoms did not 
arise from remorse or feaV ; his passion overshadowed 
all. He felt a boundless joy. He saw the world at 
his feet. 

It was by this act of frankness and of extraordi- 
nary audacity, seasoned by the bloody mysticism 
so familiar to the sixteenth century, which she 
adored, that the Marquise de Campvallon surren- 
dered herself to her lover and sealed their fatal 
union. 

Six weeks had almost passed after this last epi- 
sode. It was nearly five o’clock in the afternoon 
and the Marquise awaited Camors, who was to 
come aftej the sessiop of the s Legislatif, 


254 


CAMORS. 


There was a sudden knock at one of the doers of her 
room, which communicated with her husband’s 
apartment. It was the General. She remarked 
with surprise, and even with fear, that his counte- 
nance was agitated. 

“ What is the matter with you, my friend ?” she 
said. “ Are you ill ?” 

“ No,” replied the General, “ not at all.” 

He placed himself before her, and looked at her 
some moments before speaking, his eyes rolling in 
their orbits. 

“ Charlotte !” he said, at last, with a painful smile, 
“I must own to you my folly. I have not lived 
since morning — I have received such a singular let- 
ter. Would you like to see it ?” 

“ If you wish,” she replied. 

He took a letter from his pocket, and gave it to 
her. The writing was evidently carefully disguised, 
and it was not signed. 

“An anonymous letter?” said the Marquise, 
whose eyebrows were slightly raised, with an ex- 
pression of disdain ; then she commenced reading 
the letter, which was as follows : 

“ A true friend. General, feels indignant at seeing 
your confidence and your loyalty abused. You are 
deceived by those whom you love most. 

“ A man who is covered with your favors and a 
woman who owes everything to you, are united by 
a secret intimacy which outrages you. They are im- 
patient for the hour when they can divide your spoils, 


CAMORS. 


255 


“II(* who regards it as a pious duty to warn you, 
does not desire to calumniate any one. He is sure that 
your honor is respected by her to whom you liave 
confided it, and that she is still worthy of your con- 
fidence and esteem. She wrongs you in allowing 
herself to count upon the future, which your best 
friend dates from your death. He seeks your widow 
and your estate. 

“The poor woman submits against her wits to the 
fascinations of a man too celebrated for his success- 
ful seductions. But this man, your friend — almost 
your son — how can he excuse his conduct ? Every 
honest person must be revolted by such conduct, 
and particularly he, whom a chance conversation in- 
formed of the fact, and who obeys his conscience in 
giving you this information.” 

The Marquise, after reading it, returned the letter 
coldly to the General. 

“Sign it Eleanor Jeanne de la Roche- Jugan !” 
slie said. 

“ Do you think so ?” asked the General. 

“ It is as clear as day,” replied the Marquise. “ These 
expressions betray her — ‘ a pious duty to icarn you^ 
— ‘ celebrated for his successful seductions ’’ — ‘ every 
honest person obeys his conscieyice? She can dis- 
guise her writing, but not her style. But what is 
still more conclusive is that which she attributes to 
M. de Camors — for I suppose it alludes to him — and. 
to his private prospects and calculations. This cannot 
nave failed to strike you, as it has myself, I suppose ?” 


256 


CAMORS. 


“If I tlionght this vile letter was her work,” cried 
the General, “ I never would see her again during 
my life.” 

“ Why not ? It is better to laugh at it !” 

The General commenced one of his solemn pro- 
menades across the room. The Marquise looked un- 
easily at the clock. Her husband, intercepting one 
of these glances, suddenly stopped. 

“ Do you expect Camors to-day ?” he inquired. 

“ Yes ; I think he will call after the session.” 

“ I think he will,” responded the General, wdth a 
convulsive vsmile. “And do you know, my dear,” 
he added, “ the absurd idea which has haunted me 
since I received this infamous letter? — for I believe 
tliat infamy is contagious.” 

“ You have conceived the idea of w^atching our 
interview?” said the Marquise, in a tone of indolent 
raillery. 

“ Yes,” said the General, “ there — behind that cur- 
tain — as in a theatre ; but, thank God ! I have been 
able to resist this base intention. If ever I allow 
myself to play so mean a part, I should wish at least 
to do it with your knowledge and consent.” 

“ And do you ask me to consent to it ?” asked the 
Marquise. 

“ My poor Charlotte !” said the General, in a sad 
and almost supplicating tone, “I am an old fool — 
an overgrown child — but I feel that this miserable 
letter is going to poison my life. I shall have no 
more an hour of peace and confidence. What can 
you expect? I was so cruelly deceived before. 


CAMORS. 


257 


[ am an honorable man, but I liave been taught that 
all the world are not like myself. There are some 
things which to me seem as impossible as walking 
on my head, yet I see others doing these things 
every day. What can I say to you ? After read- 
. ing this perfidious letter, I could not help recollect- 
ing that your intimacy with Camors has greatly 
increased of late !” 

“ Without doubt,” said the Marquise, “I am very 
fond of him!” 

“ I remembered also your tete-d-tete with him, the 
other night, in the boudoir, during the ball. When 
I awoke you had both an air of mystery. What 
mysteries could there be between you two ?” 

“ Ah, that indeed !” said the Marquise smiling. 

“ And will you not tell me ?” 

“ You shall know it at the proper time.” 

“ Finally, I swear to you that I suspect neither of 
you — I neither suspect you of wronging me — of 
disgracing me — or of soiling my name .... 
God help me ! . . . 

“But if you two should love each other, even 
while respecting my honor ; if you love each other 
and confess it — if you two, even at my side, in my 
heart — if you, my two children, should be calculating 
with impatient eyes the progress of my old age — 
planning your projects for the future, and smiling at 
my approaching death — postponing your happiness 
only for my tomb — you may think yourselves guilt- 
less ! But no, no ; this would be shameful !” 

Under the empire of the passion which controlled 


258 


CAMORS. 


him, the voice and language of the General becamej 
more elevated. Ilis common features had assumed 
an air of sombre dignity and imposing grandeur. A 
slight shade of paleness passed over the lovely face 
of the young woman and a slight frown contracted 
her forehead. 

By an effort, which in a better cause would have 
been sublime, she quickly niastered the rising 
weakness, and, coldly pointing out to her husband the 
draped door by which he had entered, said : 

“Very well, conceal yourself there !” 

“ You will never forgive me ?” 

“You know little of women, my friend, if you do 
not know that jealousy is one of the crimes they not 
only pardon but love.” 

“ My God, I am not jealous !” 

“ Call it yourself what you will, but station your- 
self there !” 

“ And you are sincere in wishing me to do so ?” 

“ I pray you to do so ! Retire in the interval, 
leave the door open and, when you hear M. de Ca- 
mors enter the court of the hotel, return.” 

“No !” said the General, after a moment’s hesita- 
tion ; “ since I have gone so far — and he sighed deep- 
ly — I do not wish to leave myself the least pretext 
for distrust. If I leave you before he comes, I am 
capable of fancying — ” 

“ That I might secretly warn him ? is it not ? 
Nothing more natural. Remain here, then. Only 
take a book ; for our conversation, under such circum- 
stances, cannot be lively.” 


0AM0R8 


259 


He sat down. 

“ But,” he said, “ what mystery can there be be- 
tween you two ?” ^ 

“ You shall see !” she said, with her sphinx-like 
smile. 

The General mechanically took up a hook. She 
stirred the fire, and reflected. As she liked terror, 
danger and dramatic incidents to blend with her 
intrigues, she should have been content ; for at 
that moment shame, ruin, and death were at her 
door. But, to tell the truth, it was too much for 
her; and when she looked, in the midst of the silence 
which surrounded her, at the true character and 
scope of the perils which environed her, she thought 
her brain would fail and her heart break. 

She was not mistaken as to the origin of the letter. 
This shameful work had indeed been planned by 
Madame de la Roche- Jugan. To do her justice, 
she had not suspected the force of the blow she was 
dealing. She still believed in the virtue of the Mar- 
quise ; hut during the perpetual surveillance she had 
never relaxed, she could not fail to see the changed 
nature of the intercourse between Camors and the 
Marquise. It must not he forgotten that she 
dreamed of securing for her son Sigismund the suc- 
cession of her old friend ; and foresaw a dangerous 
rivalry — the germ of which she sought to destroy. 
To awaken the distrust of the General toward Ca- 
mors, so as to cause his doors to he closed against 
him, was all she meditated. But her anonymous 
letter, like most villainies of this kind, was a more 


260 


CAMons. 


fatal and inurderous weapon tliaii its base autlioi 
imagined. 

The young Marquise, then, mused wliile stirring 
the fire, casting, from time to time, a furtive glance 
at the clock. 

M. de Camors would soon arrive — how could she 
warn him ? In the present state of their relations it 
was not impossible that the very first words of Ca- 
mors might immediately divulge their secret ; and 
once betrayed, there was not only for her personal dis- 
honor — a scandalous fall, poverty, a convent — but for 
her husband or her lover — perhaps for both — death ! 

When the bell in the lower court sounded, an- 
nouncing the Count’s approach, all of these thoughts 
crowded into the brain of the Marquise like a legion 
of phantoms. But she rallied her courage by a des- 
perate effort and strained all her faculties to the 
execution of the plan she had hastily conceived, 
which was her last hope. And one word, one 
gesture, one mistake, or one carelessness of her 
lover, might overthrow it in a second. A moment 
later the door was opened by a servant, announcing 
M. de Camors. Without speaking, she signed to 
her husband to gain his hiding-place. The General, 
who had risen at the sound of the bell, seemed still 
to hesitate, but shrugging his shoulders, as if in dis- 
dain of himself, retired behind the curtain which 
faced the door. 

M. de Camors entered the room carelessly, and 
advanced toward the fireplace where sat the Mar- 
quise; his smiling lips half opened to speak, when 


CAMOltS. 


261 


he was struck by the peculiar expression on the face 
of the Marquise, and the words were frozen on his 
lips. This look, fixed upon him from his entrance, 
had a strange weird intensity, which without ex* 
pressing any thing, made him fear everything. But 
he was a man accustomed to trying situations, and 
as wary and prudent as he was intrepid. He ceased 
to smile, did not speak, but waited. 

She gave him her hand without ceasing to look at 
him with the same alarming intensity. 

“ Either she is mad,” he said to himself, “ or there 
is some great peril !” 

With the rapid perception of her genius and of 
her love, she felt he understood her ; and not leaving 
him time to speak and compromise her, instantly 
said : 

“ It is very kind of you to keep your promise.” 

“Not at all,” said Camors, seating himself. 

“Yes! For you know you come here to be tor- 
mented.” There was a pause. 

“ Have you at last become a convert to my fixed 
idea ?” she added after a second. 

“ What fixed idea ? It seems to me you have a 
great many 1” 

“ Yes ! But I speak of a good one — my best one 
at least — of your marriage, indeed !” 

“ What ! again, my cousin ?” said Camors, who, 
now assured of his danger and its nature, marched 
with a firmer foot over the burning soil. 

“ Always, my cousin ; and I will tell you another 
thing — I have found the person.” 


262 


CAM0R8. 


“ Ah ! Then I shall run away !” 

She cut short his smile with an imperious glance. 

“ Then you still adhere to it ?” said Camors, yet 
laughing. 

“Most firmly! I need not repeat to you my 
reasons — having preached about it all winter — in 
fact so much so as to disgust the General, who sus- 
pects some mystery between us.” 

“ The General ? Indeed ! 

“Oh! Nothing serious you must understand. 
Well, let us resume the subject. Miss Campbell will 
not do — she is too blonde — an odd objection for me to 
make, by the way ; not Mile, de Silas — too thin ; 
not Mile. Rolet, in spite of her millions ; not Mile. 
d’Esgrigny — too much like the Bacquieres and Van- 
Cuyps. All this is a little discouraging, you will 
admit ; but finally everything clears up. I tell you 
I have discovered one — a marvel !” 

“ Her name ?” said Camors. 

“ Marie de T^cle !” 

There was silence. 

“Well, you say nothing,” resumed the Marquise 
“ because you can have nothing to say ! Because 
she unites everything — personal beauty, family, for- 
tune, everything — almost like a dream. Then, too, 
your properties join. You see how I have thought 
of everything, my friend! But T cannot imagine 
how we never came to think of this before !” 

M. de Camors did not reply, and the Marquise 
began to be surprised at his silence. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed; “you may look a long 


CAMORS. 


263 


time — there cannot be a single objection — you are 
caught this time. Come, my friend, say yes, I im- 
plore you !” And while her lips said I pray you^'" 
in a tone of gracious entreaty, her look said with 
terrible emphasis, “yow mustP'* 

“ Will you allow me to reflect upon it, Madame ?” 
he said at last. 

“ No, my friend !” 

“But really,” said Camors, who was very pale, 
“ it seems to me you dispose of the hand of Mile, de 
Tecle very readily. Mile, de T6cle is very rich and 
they court her on all sides — also her grand-uncle has 
ideas 'of the Province, and her mother, ideas of re- 
ligion, which might well — ” 

“ I charge myself with all that,” interrupted the 
Marquise. 

“ But, what a mania you have for marrying peo- 
ple !” 

“Women who do not make love, my cousin, al- 
ways have this mania for matchmaking.” 

“ But seriously, you will give me a few days for 
reflection ?” 

“To reflect about what? Have you not always 
told me you intended marrying and been only wait- 
ing the chance? Well, you never can find a better 
one than this ; and if you let it slip, you will repent 
the rest of your life. 

“ But give me time to consult my family !” 

“ Your family — what a joke ! It seems to me you 
have reached full age; and then — what family? 
Your Aunt de la Roche- Jugan ?” 


264 


CAM ons. 


“ Doubtless ! I do not wish to offend her.” 

“Ah, mon Dieii! suppress this uneasiness; I vow 
to you she will be delighted !” 

“ Why should she ?” 

“I have my reasons for thinking so;” and the 
young woman in uttering these words was seized 
with a sardonic laughter which came near convul- 
sion, so shaken were her nerves by the terrible ten- 
sion. 

Camors, to whom little by little the light fell 
stronger on the more obscure points of the terrible 
enigma proposed to him, saw the necessity of short- 
ening a scene which had overtasked all her faculties 
to an almost insupportable degree. He rose : 

“ I am compelled to leave you,” he said; “for 1 
am not dining at home. But I wdll come to-morrow, 
if you will permit me.” 

“ Certainly. You authorize me to speak to the Gen- 
eral?” 

“ Mon Dieu / yes, for I really can see no reason- 
able objection.” 

“Very good. I adore you!” said the Marquise. 
She gave him her hand, which he kissed and immedi- 
ately departed. 

It would have required a much keener vision than 
that of M. de Campvallon to have detected any 
break, or any discordance, in the audacious comedy 
which had just been played before him by these tw^o 
great artists. 

The mute play of their eyes alone could have be- 
trayed them ; and these he could not see. 


CAMORS. 


265 


As to their tranquil, easy, natural dialogue, there 
was not in it a word which he could seize upon, and 
which did not remove all his disquietude, and con- 
found all his suspicions. From this moment, and 
ever afterward, every shadow was elFaced from his 
mind ; for to imagine such a plot as that in which 
his wife in her despair had sought refuge, to enter 
into such a depth of perversity, was not in the Gen- 
eral’s pure and simple spirit. , 

When he reappeared before his wife, on leaving 
his concealment, he was constrained and awkward. 
With a gesture of confusion and humility he took 
her hand, and smiled upon her with all the goodness 
and tenderness of his soul beaming from his face. 

At this moment the Marquise, by a new reaction 
of her nervous system, commenced weeping and 
sobbing ; and this completed the General’s despair. 

Out of respect to this worthy man, we shall pass 
over a scene the interest of which otherwise is not 
sufficient to warrant the unpleasant effect it would 
produce on all honest people. We shall equally pass 
over without record the conversation which took 
place the next day between the Marquise and M. de 
Camors. 

Camors had experienced, as we have observed, a 
sentiment of repulsion at seeing the name of Mile, 
de Tecle appear in the midst of this foul intrigue. 
It amounted almost to horror, arid he could not con- 
trol the manifestation of it. How could he conquer 
this supreme revolt of his conscience to the point of 
submitting to the expedient which would make his 


266 


CAMORS. 


intrigue a safe one ? By what detestable sophistries 
he dared persuade himself that he owed everything 
to his accomplice — even this, we shall not attempt 
to explain. To explain would be to extenuate, and 
that we wish not to do. We shall only say that he 
resigned himself to this marriage. On the patli 
which he had entered a man arrests himself as little 
as he can a flash of lightning. 

As to the Marquise, one must have formed no con- 
ception of this depraved though haughty spirit, if 
astonished at her persistence in cold blood, and after 
reflection, in the perfidious plot which the imminence 
of her danger had suggested to her. She saw that 
the suspicions of the General might be reawakened 
another day in a more dangerous manner, if this 
marriage proved only a farce. She passionately 
loved Camors ; and she loved scarcely less the dra- 
matic mystery of their liaison. She had also felt a 
frantic terror at the thought of losing the great for- 
tune which she regarded as her own ; for the disinter- 
estedness of her early youth had long vanished, and 
the idea of sinking miserably in the Parisian world, 
where she had long reigned by her luxury as well as 
her beauty, was insupportable to her. 

Love, mystery, fortune — she wished to preserve 
them all at any price ; and the more she reflected, 
the more the marriage of Camors appeared to her 
the surest safeguard. 

It was true, it would give her a sort of rival. But 
she had too high an opinion of herself to fear any- 
thing ; and she preferred Mile, de Tecle to any other, 


CAMORS. 


267 


beeause slie knew her, and regarded her as an infe- 
rior in everything. 

About fifteen days after, the General called on 
Madame de T^cle one morning, and demanded for 
M. de Camors her daughter’s hand. It would be 
painful to dwell on the joy which Madame de T5cle 
felt ; and her only surprise was that Camors had 
not come in person to press his suit. But Camors 
had not the heart to do so. He had been at Reuilly 
since that morning, and called on Madame de T^cle, 
where he learned his overture was accepted. Once 
having resolved on this monstrous action, he was 
determined to carry it through in the most correct 
manner, and we know he was master of all those arts. 

In the evening Madame de T^cle and her daugh- 
ter, left alone, walked together a long time on their 
dear terrace, by the soft light of the stars — the 
daughter blessing her mother, and the mother thank- 
ing God — both mingling their hearts, their dreams, 
their kisses, and their tears — happier, poor women, 
than is permitted long to human beings under the 
heavens. The marriage took place the ensuing 
month. 


268 


CAMOBS. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE COUNTESS HE CAMOKS. 

After passing the few weeks of the honey-moon 
at Renilly, the Count and Countess de Camors re- 
turned to Paris and established themselves at their 
hotel in the rue de V Imperatrice. From this mo- 
ment, and during the months which followed, the 
young wife kept up an active correspondence with 
her mother ; and we here transcribe some of the let- 
ters, which will make us more intimately acquainted 
with the character of the young woman. 

Mde. de ‘Camors to Mde. de Thcle. 

“ October. 

“Am I happy? No, my dearest mother! No — 
not happy ! I have only wings and soar to the 
heavens like a bird ! I feel the sunshine in my head, 
in my eyes, in my heart. 

“ It blinds me, it enchants me, it causes me to shed 
delicious tears! Happy? No, my tender mother; 
that is not possible, when I think that I am his wife ! 
The wife — understand me — of him who has reigned 
in my poor thoughts since I was able to think — of 
him whom I should have chosen out of the whole 
universe ! When I remember that I am his wife, 
that we are united forever, how I love life ! how I 
love you ! how I love God ! 


CAMORS. 


269 


“ The Bois and the lake are within a few steps of 
us, as you know. We ride thither nearly every 
morning, my husband and myself! — I repeat, my 
husband! We go there, my husband and myself — 

I and my husband! 

“ I know not how it is, but it is always delicious ' 
weather to me, even when it rains — as it does furi- 
ously to-day ; for we have just come in, driven home 
by the storm. 

“ During our ride to-day, I took occasion to ques- 
tion him quietly as to some points of our history 
which puzzled me — ‘ Why he married me ?’ 

“‘Because you pleased me apparently. Miss Ma- 
ry.’ He likes to give me this name, which recalls 
to him I know not what episode of my savage infan- 
cy — savage still to him. 

“ ‘ If I pleased you, why did I see you so seldom ?’ 

“ ‘ Because I did not wish to court you until I had 
decided on marrying.’ 

“ ‘ IIow could I have pleased you, not being at all 
beautiful ?’ 

“‘You are not beautiful, it is true,’ replies this 
cruel young man, ‘ but you are very pretty ; and 
above all you are grace itself, like — your mother.’ 

“ All these obscure points being cleared up to the 
complete satisfaction of Miss Mary, Miss Mary took 
to fast galloping; not because it was raining, but 
because she became suddenly — we do not know 
why — as red as a poppy. 

“ Oh, beloved mother ! how sweet it is to be 
loved by him we adore, and to be loved precisely as 


270 


CAMORS. 


we wish — as we have dreamed — according to the 
exact programme of our young, romantic hearts ! 

“ Did you ever believe I had ideas on such a deli- 
cate subject? Yes, dear mother, I did have them. 
Thus it seemed to me there were many different 
styles of loving — some vulgar, some pretentious, 
some foolish, and others, again, excessively comic. 
None of these seemed suited to the Prince, our 
neighbor. I ever felt he ought to love, like the 
Prince he is, with grace and dignity ; with serious 
tenderness, a little stern perhaps ; with amiability, 
but almost with condescension — as a lover, but as a 
master, too — ^in fine, like my husband! 

“ Dear angel, who art my mother ! be happy in my 
happiness, which was your sole work. I kiss your 
hands — I kiss your wings ! 

“ I thank you ! I bless you ! I adore you ! 

“ If you were near me, it would be too much happi- 
ness! I should die, I think. Nevertheless, come 
to us very soon. Your chamber awaits you. It is 
blue as the heavens in which I float. I have already 
told you this, but I repeat it. 

“ Good-bye, mother of the happiest woman in the 
world ! 

“ Miss Mart, 

“ Countess of Camors.” 

“Novbmbkb. 

“ My Mother : 

“ You made me weep — I who await you every 
morning. I will say nothing to you, however; I 


CAMORS. 


271 


will not beg you. If the health of my grandfather 
seems to you so feeble as to demand your presence, 
I know no prayer would take you away from your 
duty. Nor would I make the prayer, my angel 
mother ! 

“ But exaggerate nothing, I pray you ; and think 
your little Marie cannot pass by the blue chamber 
without feeling a swelling of the heart. Apart from 
this grief which you cause her, she continues to be 
as happy as even you could wish. 

“ Her charming Prince is ever charming and ever 
her Prince ! He takes her to see the monuments, 
the museums, the theatres, like the poor little pro- 
vincial that she is. Is it not touching on the part 
of such a great personage ? 

“ He is amused at my ecstasies — for I have ecsta- 
sies. Do not breathe it to my uncle Rameures, but 
Paris is superb / The days here count double our 
own for thought and life. 

“My husband took me to Versailles yesterday. 
I suspect this, in the eyes of the people here, is rather 
a ridiculous episode ; for I notice the Count did not 
boast of it. Versailles corresponds entirely with 
the impressions you had given me of it ; for there is 
not the slightest change since you visited it with my 
grandfather. 

“ It is grand, solemn, and cold. There is, though, 
a new and very curious museum in the upper story 
of the palace, consisting chiefly of original portraits 
of the famous men of history. Nothing pleases me 
more than to see these heroes of my memory passing 


272 


QAMORS. 


before me in grand procession — from Charles the 
Bold to Washington. Those faces my imagination 
has so often tried to evoke, that it seems to me we 
are in the Elysian Fields, and hold converse with the 
dead ! 

“You must know, my mother, I was familiar witli 
many things that surprised M. de Camors very 
much. He was greatly struck hy my science and ge- 
nius. I did no more, as you may imagine, than re- 
spond to his questions; hut it seemed to astonish 
him that I could respond. 

“ Why should he ask me these things ? If Im did 
not know how to distinguish the different Princesses 
of Conti, the answer is simple. 

“ But I knew, because my mother had taught me. 
That is simple enough too. 

“We dined afterward, hy my suggestion, at a 
restaurant. Oh, my mother ! this was the ha2)piest 
moment of my life ! To dine at a restaurant with 
my husband was the most delightful of all crimes ! 

“ I have said he seemed astonished at my learning. 
I ought to add in general, he seemed astonished 
whenever I opened my lips. Did he imagine me a 
mute ? I speak little, I acknowledge, however, for 
he inspires me with a ceaseless fear : I am afraid of 
displeasing him, of appearing silly before him, or 
pretentions, or pedantic. The day when I shall be 
at ease with him, and when I can show him all my 
good sense and gratitude — if that day ever comes — 
I will be relieved of a great weight on my mind ; 
for truly I sometimes fear he looks on me as a child. 


GAMOns. 


273 


“ The other day I stopped before a toy-shop on 
the Boulevard. What a blunder ! And as he saw 
my eye fixed on a magnificent squadron of dolls — 

“ ‘ Do you wish one, Miss Mary ?’ he said. 

“Was not this horrible, my mother — from him 
who knows everything except the Princesses of 
Conti ? He explained everything to me ; but briefly 
in a word, as if to a person he despaired of ever 
making understand him. And I understand so well 
all the time, my poor little mother ! 

“But so much the better, say I; for if he loves 
me while thinking me silly, what will it be later ! 

“ With fond love, yoiii" 

“ Marie.” 

:(< :ic 4: % % % 

“ December. 

“ All Paris is back once more, my dear mother, and 
for fifteen days I have been occupied with my visits. 
The men here do not usually visit ; but my husband 
is obliged to present me for the first time to the per- 
sons I ought to know. He accompanies me there, 
which is much more agreeable to me than to him, I 
believe. 

“ He is more serious than usual. Is not this the 
only form in which amiable men show their bad 
humor? The people we visit look on me with a 
certain interest. The woman whom this great lord 
has honored with his choice is evidently an object 
of great curiosity. This flatters and intimidates me ; 
I blush and feel constrained; I appear awkward. 
When they find me awkward and insignificant, they 


CAMORS. 


274 

stare. They believe he married me for my fortune 
then I wish to cry. We re-enter the carriage, he 
smiles upon me, and I am in heaven ! Such are our 
visits. 

“ You must know, my mother, that to me Madame 
Campvallon is divine. She often takes me to her 
box at the Italiens, as mine will not be vacant until 
January. Yesterday she gave a little fUe for me 
in her beautiful saloon : the General opened the ball 
with me. 

“ Oh ! my mother, what a wonderfully clever man 
the General is ! And I admire him because he ad- 
mires you ! 

“The Marquise presented to me all the best 
dancers. They were soft young gentlemen, with 
their necks so uncovered it almost gave me a chill. 
I never before had seen men bare-necked and it is 
not becoming. It was very evident, however, that 
they considered themselves indispensable and charm- 
ing. Their deportment was insolent and self-suffi- 
cient ; their eyes disdainful and all-conquering. 

“ Their mouths ever open to breathe freer, their 
coat-tails flapping like two wings, they take one by tlie 
waist — as one takes his own property. Informing 
you by a look that they are going to do you the 
honor of removing you, they whirl you away; then, 
panting for breath, inform you by another look that 
they will do themselves the pleasure of stopping — 
and they stop. Then they rest a moment, panting, 
laughing, showing their teeth; another look — and 


CAMOBS 


275 


they repeat the same performance. They are ad* 
mirable ! 

“ Louis waltzed with me and seemed satisfied. I 
saw him for the first time waltz with the Marquise 
Oh, my mother, it was the dance of the stars ! 

“ One thing which struck me this evening, as al- 
ways, was the manifest idolatry with which the 
women regard my husband. This, my tender 
mother, terrifies me. Why — I ask myself — why did 
he choose me ? How can I please him ? How can 
I succeed? 

“ Behold the result of all my meditations ! A folly 
perhaps, but of which the effect is to reassure me . 

Portrait of the Countess de Gamors^ drawn hy 
herself. 

“The Countess de Camors, formerly Marie de 
T^cle, is a personage who, having reached her twen- 
tieth year, looks older. She is not beautiful, as her 
husband is the first person to confess. He says she 
is pretty; but she doubts even this. Let us see. 
She has very long limbs, a fault which she shares 
with Diana, the Huntress, and which probably gives 
to the gait of the Countess a lightness it might not 
otherwise possess. Her body is naturally short, and 
on horseback appears to best advantage. She is 
plump without being gross. 

“ Her features are irregular ; the mouth being too 
large and the lips too thick, with — alas ! the shade 
of a moustache; white teeth, a little too small; a 
common-place nose, a little of a pug; and her 


276 


VAMoJiS. 


mother’s eyes — her best feature. She has the eye^ 
brows of her uncle Des Rameures, which gives an 
air of severity to the face and neutralizes the good* 
natured expression — a reflex from the softness of 
her heart. 

“ She has the dark complexion of her mother, 
which is more becoming to her mother than to her. 
Add to all this, blue-black hair in great masses and 
fine as silk ; and, on the whole, one knows not what 
to pronounce her. 


“ There, my mother, is my portrait ! Intended to 
reassure me, it has hardly done so ; for it seems to 
me to be that of an ugly little woman ! 

“ I wish to be the most lively of women ; I wish 
to be one of the most distinguished. I wish 
to be one of the most captivating ! But, Oh, my 
motlier ! if I please him I am still more enchanted ! 
On tlie whole, thank God ! he finds me perhaps 
much better than I am : for men have not the same 
taste in these matters that we have. 

“ But what I really cannot comprehend, is why he 
has so little admiration for the Marquise de Camp- 
vallon. His manner is very cold to her. Had I 
been a man, I should have been wildly in love with 
that grand woman ! Good-night, most beloved of 
mothers ! 

♦ IK :(: % 4; 

“January. 

“ You complain of me, my cherished one I 
The tone of my letters wounds you ! You can- 


CAMOtiS. 


277 


not comprehend how this matter of my personal 
appearance haunts me. I scrutinize it ; I compare 
it with that of others. There is something of levity 
in that which hurts you ? How can I think a man 
attaches himself to these things, while the merits of 
mind and soul go for nothing ? 

“ But, my dearest mother, how will these merits 
of mind and of soul — supposing your daughter to 
})0ssess them — serve her, unless she possess the cour- 
age or the opportunity to display them ? And when 
I summon up the courage, it seems to me the occa 
sion never comes. 

“ For I must confess to you that this delicious Paris 
is not perfect ; and I discover, little by little, the 
spots upon the sun. 

“ Paris is the most charming place ! The only pity 
is that it has inhabitants! Not but that they are 
agreeable, for they are only too much so ; only they 
are also very careless, and appear to my view to live 
and die without reflecting much on wbat they are 
doing. It is not their fault ; they have no time. 

“ Without leaving Paris, they are incessant travel- 
lers, eternally distracted by motion and novelty. 
Other voyagers, when they have visited some dis- 
tant corner — forgetting for awhile their families, their 
<luties, and their homes — return and settle down 
again. But these Parisians never do. Their life is 
an endless voyage ; they have no home. That which 
elsewhere is the great aim of life is secondary hero. 
One has here, as elsewhere, an establishment — a 
house, a private chamber. One must have. Hero 


278 


GAMORS. 


one is wife or mother, husband or father, just 
as elsewhere ; but, my poor mother, they are 
these things just as little as possible. The whole 
interest centres not in the homes ; but in the streets, 
in the museums, in the salons^ in the theatres, and in 
the clubs. It radiates to the immense outside life, 
which in all its forms night and day agitates Paris, 
attracts, excites, and enervates you; steals your 
time, your mind, your soul — and devours them all ! 

“ Paris is the most delicious of places to visit — the 
worst of places to live in. 

“ Understand well, my mother, that in seeking by 
what qualities I can best attract my husband — who 
is the best of men, doubtless, but of Parisian men 
nevertheless — I have constantly reflected on merits 
which may be seen at once, which do not require 
time to be appreciated. 

“ Finally, I do not deny that this is a wretched 
business, unworthy of you and of myself; for you 
know I am not at heart a bad little woman. Cer- 
tainly, if I could keep M. de Camors for a year or two 
at an old chateau in the midst of a solitary wood, I 
should like it much. I could then see him more 
frequently, I could then become familiar with his 
august person, and could develop my little talents 
under his charmed eyes. But then this might 
weary him and would be too easy. Life and happi- 
ness, I know, are not so easily managed. All is 
difficulty, peril, and conflict. 

“ What joy, then, to conquer ! And I swear to 
you, my mother, that I will conquer ! I will force 


C AMORS. 


279 


him to know me as you know me ; to love me, not 
as he now does, but as you do, for many good rea- 
sons which he yet dreams not of. 

“Not that he believes me absolutely a fool; I 
think he has abandoned that idea for at least two 
days past. 

“ How he came thus to think, my next letter shall 
explain. 

“ Your own 

“ Marie.” 


^80 


OAUOtHS. 


CHAPTER XV. 

niE REPTILE STRIVES TO CLIMB. 

“ March. 

“ You will remember, my mother, that the Count 
has as secretary a man named Vautrot. The name 
is a bad one ; but the man himself is a good enough 
creature, except that I somewhat dislike his cat-like 
style of looking at one. 

“ Well, M. de Vautrot lives in the house with us. 
He comes early in the morning, breakfasts at some 
neighboring cafe, passes the day in the Count’s 
study, and often remains to dine with us, if he has 
work to finish in the evening. 

“ He is an educated man, and knows a little of 
everything ; and he has undertaken many occupa- 
tions before he accepted the subordinate, though 
lucrative position he now occupies with my husband. 
He loves literafure ; but not that of his time and of 
bis country, perhaps because he himself has failed in 
this. He prefers foreign writers and poets, whom 
he quotes with some taste, though with too much 
declamation. 

“ Most probably his early education was defec- 
tive ; for on all occasions, when speaking with us, 
he says, ‘Yes, M. le Comte!’ or ‘Certainly, Mde. 
la Comtesse !’ as though he were a servant. Yet, 


CAM0B3. 


281 


witlial, he has a peculiar pride, or perhaps I should 
say insufferable vanity. But his great fault, in niy 
eyes, is the scoffing tone he adopts when the subject 
is religion or morals. 

“Well, two days since, while we were dining, 
Vautrot allowed himself to indulge in a rather vio- 
lent tirade of this description. It was doubtless 
contrary to all good taste. 

“ ‘My dear Vautrot,’ my husband said quietly to 
him, ‘ to me these pleasantries of yours are indif- 
ferent; but pray remember, that while you are a 
strong-minded man, my wife is a weak-minded wo- 
man ; and strength, you know, should respect weak 
ness.’ 

“ M. Vautrot first grew white, then red, and finally 
green. He rose, bowed awkwardly, and immediate- 
ly afterward left the table. Since that time I have 
remarked his manner has been more reserved. The 
moment I was alone with Louis, I said : 

“‘You may think me indiscreet, but pray let me 
ask you a question. How can you confide all your 
affairs and all your secrets to a man who professes 
to have no principles ?’ 

“ M. de Camors laughed. 

“ ‘ Oh, he talks thus out of bravado,’ he answered 
‘He thinks to make himself more interesting in your 
eyes by these Mephistophilean airs. At bottom he 
is a good fellow.’ 

“ ‘ But,’ I answered, ‘ he has faith in nothing.’ 

“‘Not in much, I believe. Yet he has never de- 
ceived me He is an honorable man.’ 


282 


CAMORFS, 


“ 1 opened my eyes wide at this, my mother. 

“‘Well,’ he said, with an amused look, ‘what is 
the matter. Miss Mary ?’ 

“ ‘ What is this honor you speak of?’- 

“ ‘ Let me ask you. Miss Mary,’ he replied. 

“ ‘ 3Ion Dieu P I cried, blushing deeply, ‘ I know 
but little of it, but it seems to me that honor sepa- 
rated from morality is no great thing ; and morality 
without religion is nothing. They all constitute a 
cliain. Honor hangs to the last link, like a flower ; 
but if the chain be broken, honor falls with the rest.’ 
He looked at me with strange eyes, as though he 
were not only confounded but disquieted by my 
philosophy. Then he gave a deep sigh, and rising 
said: 

“ ‘ Very neat, that definition — very neat.’ 

“ That night, at the opera, he plied me with hon- 
bo7is and orange-ices. Madame de Campvallon ac- 
companied us ; and at parting, I begged her to call 
for me next day in passing to the for she is 

my idol. She is so lovely and so distinguished — and 
she knows it well. I love to be with her. On our 
return home, Louis remained silent, contrary to his 
custom. Suddenly he said, brusquely : 

“ ‘ Marie, do you go with the Marquise to the JBois 
to-morrow ?’ 

“‘Yes.’ 

“ ‘ But you see her often, it seems to me — morning 
and evening. You are always with her.’ 

“ ‘ Heavens ! I do it to be agreeable to you. Is 
not Madame de Campvallon a good associate ?’ 


CAMORS. 


283 


“ ‘ Excellent ; only in general I do not admire 
female friendships. But I did wrong to speak to 
you on this subject. You have wit and discretion 
enough to preserve the proper limits.’ 

“ This, my mother, was what he said to me. I em- 
brace you. 

Ever your “ Marie.” 

* ♦ ♦ ♦ Hs ♦ 

“ March. 

“ I hope, my own mother, not to annoy you this 
year with a catalogue of fUes and festivals, lamps 
and girandoles ; for Lent is coming. To-day is Ash- 
Wednesday. Well, we dance to-morrow evening at 
Mde. d’Oilly’s. I had hoped not to go, but I saw 
Louis was disappointed, and I feared to offend Mde. 
d’Oilly, who has acted a mother’s part to my hus- 
band. Lent here is only an empty name. I sigh to 
myself : ‘ Will they never stop ! Great heavens ! 
will they never cease .amusing themselves ?’ 

“ I must confess to you, my darling mother, I amuse 
myself too much to be happy. I depended on Lent 
for this ; and see how they efface the calendar ! 

“ This dear Lent ! What a sweet, honest, pious in- 
vention it is notwithstanding. How sensible is our 
religion ! How well it understands human weakness 
and folly ! How far-seeing in its regulations ! How 
indulgent also ! for to limit pleasure is to pardon it. 

“I also love pleasure — the beautiful toilets that 
make us resemble flowers, the lighted salons^ the 
music, the gay voices and the dance. Yes, I love 
all these things ; I experience their charming confu* 


284 


CAM0R8. 


Bion; I palpitate, I inhale their intoxication. But 
always — always! at Paris in the winter — at the 
springs in summer — ever this crowd, ever this whirl, 
this drunkenness of pleasure ! All become some- 
thing savage, negro-like, and — dare I say so ? — bes- 
tial ! Poor Lent ! 

“ He foresaw it. He told us, as the priest told me 
this morning : ‘ Remember you have a soul ! Re- 
member you have duties ! — a husband — a child — a 
mother — a God 1’ 

“ Then, my mother, we should retire within our- 
selves; should pass the time in grave thought be- 
tween the church and our homes ; should converse 
on solemn and serious subjects ; and should dwell in 
the moral world to gain a foothold in heaven ! This 
season is intended as a wholesome interval to pre- 
vent our running frivolity into dissipation, and 
pleasure into convulsion ; to prevent our winter’s 
mask from becoming our proper visage. This is 
entirely the opinion of Mde. Jaubert. 

“ Who is this Madame Jaubert ? She is a little 
Parisian angel whom my mother would dearly love ! 
I met her almost everywhere — but chiefly at St. 
Phillipe de Roule — for several months without being 
aware that she was our neighbor, that her hotel ad- 
joined ours. Such is Paris! 

“ She is a graceful person, with a soft and tender, 
but decided air. We generally placed ourselves to- 
gether at church ; we gave each other side-glances ; 
we pushed our chairs to let each other pass ; and in 
pur softest voices would say, ‘ Excuse me, Madame !’ 


C A MORS. 


285 


‘ Oh, Madame !’ My glove would fall, she would pick 
it up ; I would offer her the holy water, and receive 
a sweet smile, with ‘ Dear Madame !’ Once at a con- 
cert at the Tuileries we observed each other at a 
distance, and smiled recognition ; when any part of 
the mysic pleased us particularly we glanced smil- 
ingly at each other. Judge of my surprise next 
morning when I saw my sympathy enter the little 
Italian house next ours — and enter it, too, as if it 
were her home. On inquiry I found she was Madame 
Jaubert, the wife of a tall, fair young man who was 
once a civil engineer. 

“ I was seized with an invincible desire to call 
upon niy neighbor. I spoke of it to Louis, blushing 
slightly, for I remembered he did not approve of in- 
timacies between women. But above all, he loves 
me ! 

“ Notwithstanding he slightly shrugged his shoul- 
ders — ‘ Permit me at least. Miss Mary, to make some 
ino^uiries about these people.’ 

“A few days afterward he had made them, for he 
said : ‘ Miss Mary, you can go to Madame J aubert’s, 
she is a perfectly proper person.’ 

“ I first flew to my husband’s neck, and thence to 
Madame Jaubert’s. 

“ ‘ It is I, Madame !’ 

“ ‘ Oh, Madame, permit me !’ 

“And we embraced each other and were good 
friends immediately. 

“ Her husband is a civil engineer. He is occupied 
with great ini^’entions and with great industrial 


CAMORS. 


i!86 

works ; but that only has been for a short time. 
Having inherited a large estate, he abandoned his 
studies and did nothing — at least nothing but mis- 
chief. When he married to increase his fortune, his 
pretty little wife had a sad surprise. He was never 
seen at home ; always at the club — always behind 
the scenes at the opera — always going to the devil ! 
He gambled, he had mistresses and shameful afiairs. 
But worse than all, he drank — ^he came to his wife 
drunk. One incident, which my pen almost refuses 
to write, wdll give you an idea. Think of it ! He 
conceived the idea of sleeping in his boots ! There, 
my mother, is the pretty fellow my sweet little friend 
made, little by little, a decent man, a man of merit, 
and an excellent husband ! 

“ And she did it all by gentleness, firmness, and 
sagacity. Now is not this encouraging? — for God 
know^s, my task is less difficult. 

“Their household charms me; for it proves that 
one may build for one’s self, even in the midst of this 
Paris, a little nest such as one dreams of These 
dear neighbors are inhabitants of Paris — not its prey. 
They have their fireside ; they own it, and it belongs 
to them. Paris is at their door — so much the better. 
They have ever a relish for refined amusement ; they 
drink at the fountain, but do not drown themselves 
in it. Their habits are the same, passing their even- 
ings in conversation, reading, or music ; stirring the 
fire and listening to the wind and rain without, as 
though they were in a forest. 


CAMORS. 


287 


“ Life slips gently through their fingers, thread by 
thread, as in our dear old country evenings. 

“My mother, they are happy ! 

“ Here, then, is my dream — here is my plan. 

“My husband has no vices like Monsieur Jaubert. 
lie has only the habits of all the brilliant men of 
his Paris-world. It is necessary, my own mother, 
gradually to reform him; to insensibly suggest to 
him the new idea that one may pass one evening at 
home in company with a beloved and loving wife, 
without dying suddenly of consumption. 

“ The rest will follow. 

“What is this rest? It is the taste for a quiet 
life, for the serious sweetness of the domestic hearth 
— the family taste — the idea of seclusion — the re- 
covered soul ! 

“Is it not so, my good angel? Then trust me. 
I am more than ever full of ardor, courage, and con- 
fidence. For he loves me with all his heart, with 
more levity, perhaps, than I deserve ; but still — he 
loves me ! 

He loves me; he spoils me; he heaps presents 
upon me. There is no pleasure he does not offer me, 
except, be it understood, the pleasure of passing one 
evening at home together. 

“ But he loves me ! That is the great point — he 
loves me! 

“How, dearest mother, let me whisper one final 
word — a word that makes me laugh and cry at the 
same time. It seems to me that for some time past 


288 


CAMORS. 


I have had two hearts — a large one of my own, and 
— another — smaller ! 

“ Oh, my mother ! I see you in tears. But it is a 
great mystery this. It is a dream of heaven ; but 
perhaps only a dream, which I have not yet told 
even to my husband — only to my adorable mother ! 
Do not weep, for it is not yet quite certain. 

“ Your naughty 

“ Miss Mary.” 

In reply to this letter Mde. de Camors received 
one three mornings after, announcing to her the 
death of her grandfather. The Count de Tecle had 
died of apoplexy, of which his state of health had 
long given warning. Mde. de Tecle foresaw that 
the first impulse of her daughter would be to come 
and join her to share her sad bereavement. She 
advised her strongly against undertaking the fatigue 
of the journey, and promised to visit her in Paris, as 
soon as she conveniently could. The mourning in 
the family heightened in the heart of the Countess 
the uneasy feeling and vague sadness her last let- 
ters had indicated. 

She was much less happy than she told her mo- 
ther ; for the first enthusiasm and first illusions of 
marriage could not for long deceive a spirit as quick 
and acute as hers. 

A young girl who marries is easily deceived by 
the show of an aflection of which she is the object. 
It is rare that she does not adore her husband and be- 


VAMOns* 


lieve she is adored by him, simj)ly because he has 
married her. 

The young heart opens spontaneously and diffuses 
its delicate perfume of love and its soft songs of 
tenderness ; and enveloped in this heavenly cloud 
all is love around it. But, little by little, it frees 
itself; and, too often, recognizes that this delicious 
liarmony and intoxicating atmosphere which charmed 
it came only from itself. 

Thus was it here ; as far as the pen can render the 
shadows of a female soul. Such were the impres- 
sions which, day by day, penetrated the very soul of 
our poor “ Miss Mary.” 

It was nothing more than this ; but this was 
everything to her ! 

The idea of being betrayed by her husband — 
and that, too, with a cruel premeditation — had never 
arisen to torture her soul. But, beyond those deli- 
cate attentions to her which she never exaggerated 
in her letters to her mother, she felt herself dis- 
dained and slighted. Marriage had not changed 
tlie Count’s habits : he dined at home, instead of at 
his club, that was all. She believed herself loved, 
however, but with a lightness that was almost of- 
fensive. Yet, though she was sometimes sad and 
nearly in tears, you could see she did not despair ; 
and that this valiant little heart attached itself with 
intrepid confidence to all the happy chances the 
future might have in store for it. 

M. de Camors continued very indifferent — as one 


290 


CAMORS. 


may readily comprehend — to the agitation wliich 
tormented this young heart, but which never oc- 
curred to him for a moment. For himself, strange 
as it may appear, he was happy enough. This mar- 
riage had been a painful step to take; but once 
confirmed in his sin, he became reconciled to it. But 
his conscience, seared as it was, had some living 
fibres in it ; and he would not have failed in the 
duty he thought he owed to his wife. These senti- 
ments were composed of a sort of indifierence, 
blended with pity. He was vaguely sorry for this 
cliild, whose existence was absorbed and destroyed 
between those of two beings of nature superior to 
her own ; and he hoped she would always remain 
ignorant of the fate to which she was condemned. 
He resolved never to neglect anything that might 
extenuate its rigor ; but he belonged, nevertheless, 
more than ever solely to the passion which was the 
supreme crime of his life. For his intrigue with 
Madame de Campvallon, constantly excited by mys- 
tery and danger — and conducted with profound ad- 
dress by a woman whose cunning was equal to her 
beauty— continued as strong, after years of enjoy- 
ment, as at first. 

The gracious courtesy of M. de Camors, on which 
lie piqued himself, as regarded his wife, had its 
limits ; as the young Countess perceived whenever 
she attempted to abuse it. Thus, on several occa- 
sions she declined receiving company on the ground 
of indisposition, hoping her husband would not 
iliandon her to her solitude. She was in error. 


CAMOllS. 


291 


The Count gave her in reality, uiicler these cir- 
cumstances, a tUe-d-tUe of a few minutes after din- 
ner ; but near nine o’clock he would leave her with 
perfect tranquillity. Perhaps an hour later she wonld 
receive a little packet of bon-bons^ or a pretty basket 
of choice fruit, that would permit her to pass the 
evening as she might. These little gifts she some- 
times^divided with her neighbor, Mde. Jaubert ; 
sometimes with M. Vautrot, the secretary of her 
husband. 

This M. de Vautrot, for whom she had at first 
conceived an aversion, was gradually getting into 
her good graces. In the absence of her husband 
she always found him at hand ; and referred to him 
for many little details, such as addresses, invitations, 
the selection of books and the purchase of furniture. 
From this came a certain familiarity ; she began to 
call him Vautrot, or my good Vautrot, while he 
zealously performed all her little commissions. He 
manifested for her a great deal of respectful attention, 
and evfen refrained from indulging in the skeptical 
sneers which he knew displeased her. Happy to 
witness this reform and to testify her gratitude, she 
invited him to remain on two or three evenings 
when he came to take his leave, and talked with 
him of books and the theatres. 

When her mourning kept her at home, M. de Ca- 
mors passed the two first evenings with her until ten 
o’clock. But this efibrt fatigued him, and the poor 
young woman who had already erected an edifice 
for the future on tliis frail basis, had the mortifica- 


OAkoM 


tion of observing that on the third evening he had 
resumed his bachelor habits. 

This was a great blow to her, and her sadness be- 
came greater than it had been up to that time; so 
much so in fact, that solitude was almost unbearable. 
She had scarcely been long enough in Paris to form 
intimacies. Madame Jaubert came to her friend as 
often as she could ; but in the intervals the Countess 
adopted the habit of retaining Vautrot, or even of 
sending for him. Camors himself, three-fourths of 
the time, would bring him in before going out in the 
evening. 

“I bring you Vautrot, my dear,” he would 
say, “and Shakespeare. You can read him toge- 
ther.” 

Vautrot read well; and though his heavy decla- 
matory style frequently annoyed the Countess, she 
thus managed to kill many a long evening, while 
waiting the expected visit of Madame de Te^le. I>ut 
S^autrot, whenever he looked at her, wore such a 
sympathetic air and seemed so mortified when she 
did not invite him to stay, that, even when wearied 
of him, she frequently did so. 

About the end of the month of April, M. Vautrot 
was alone with the Countess de Camors about ten 
o’clock in the evening. They were reading Goethe’s 
Fanst^ which she had never before heard. This read- 
ing seemed to interest the young woman more than 
usual, and with her eyes fixed on the reader, she 
listened to it with rapt attention. She was not 
alone fascinated by the work, but — as is frequently 
25 * 


CAMORS. 


2 on 

che case — she traced her own thoughts and her own 
history across the grand fiction of the poet. 

We all know with what strange clairvoyance a 
mind possessed witli a fixed idea discovers- resem- 
blances and allusions in accidental description. Ma- 
dame de Camors perceived without doubt some re- 
mote connection between her husband and the Faust 
— between herself and Marguerite ; for she could not 
lielp showing that she was strangely agitated. Slie 
could not restrain the violence of her emotion, when 
Marguerite in prison cries out in her agony and mad 
ness: 


“ Marguerite. 

“ Who has given you, headsman, this power over me? You 
come to me while it is yet midnight. Be merciful and let me 
live. 

“ Is not to-morrow morning soon enough ? « 

“ I am yet so young — so young ! and am to die already ! I 
was fair, too ; that was my undoing. My true love was near, 
now he is far away. 

“ Toim lies my garland ; scattered the flowers. Don’t take 
liold of me so roughly ! spare me ! spare me ! What have I 
done to you ? Let me not implore you in vain ! I never saw 
you before in all my life, you know.” 

Faust. 

■ “ Can I endure this misery?” 

Marguente. 

“ I am now entirely in thy powder. Only let me give suck 
to the child. I pressed it this whole night to my heart. 
They took it aw'ay to vex me, and now say I killed it, and I 
shall never be happy again. They sing songs upon me ! It 


294 


CAMORS. 


is wicked of tlie people. An old tule ends so — who bids them 
apply it ?” 

Faust. {Throws himself on the ground) 

‘ A lover lies at thy feet, to unloose the bonds of wicked- 
ness.^* * 

What a blending of confused sentiments, of pow- 
erful sympathies, of vague apprehensions, suddenly 
seized on the breast of the young Countess ! One 
can scarcely imagine their force — to the very verge 
of distracting her. She turned on her fauteuil and 
closed her beautiful eyes, as if to keep back the tears 
which rolled under the fringe of the long lashes. 

At this moment Vautrot ceased to read, dropped 
his book, sighed profoundly, and stared a moment. 

Then he knelt at the feet of the Countess de Ca- 
mors ! He took her hand ; he said with a tragic 
sigh, “ Poor angel !” 

It will be difficult to understand this ridiculous in- 
cident and the unfortunately grave results that fol- 
lowed it, without having the moral and physical 
portrait of its principal actor. 

Monsieur Hyppolite Vautrot was a handsome man 
and knew it perfectly. He even flattered himself 
on a certain resemblance to his patron, the Count de 
Camors. Partly from nature and partly from the 
constant imitation to which he submitted himself, 
this idea had some foundation ; for he resembled the 
Count as much as a vulgar man can resemble one of 
the highest polish. 


* Hayward' b translation. 


CAM0R8. 


295 


He was the son of a small confectioner in the prov- 
inces ; had received from his father an honestly ac- 
quired fortune, and had dissipated it in the varied 
enterprises of his adventurous life. The influence of 
his college, however, obtained for him a place in the 
Seminary. He left it to come to Paris and study 
law ; placed himself with an attorney ; attempted 
literature without success; gambled at the Bourse 
and lost there. 

He had successively knocked with feverish hand 
at all the doors of fortune, and none had opened to 
him, because, though his ambition was great, his 
capacity was limited. The subordinate positions, for 
vvdiich alone he was fit, he did not want. He would 
have made a good tutor : he sighed to be a poet. 
He would have been a respectable cure in the coun- 
try : he pined to be a bishop. Fitted for an excel- 
lent secretary, he aspired to be a minister. In fine, 
he wished to be a great man, and consequently was 
a failure as a little one. 

But he made himself a hypocrite; and that he 
found much easier. He supported himself on the 
one hand by the philosophic society to be met at 
Mde. d’Oilly’s ; on the other, by the orthodox re- 
unions of Mde. de la Roche-J ugan. 

By these influences he contrived to secure the sec- 
retaryship to the Count de Camors, who, in his gen- 
eral contempt of the human species, judged Vautrot 
to be as good as any other. Now familiarity with 
M. de Camors was, morally, fearfully prejudicial to 
the secretary. It had, it is true, the eflect of strip- 


296 


CAM0R8. 


trig oft' his devout mask, which he seldom put on 
before his patron ; but it terribly increased in 
venom the depravity which disappointment and 
wounded pride had secreted in his ulcerated heart. 

Of course no one will imagine that M. de Camors 
had the bad taste to deliberately undertake the de- 
moralization of his secretary ; but contact, intimacy, 
and example sufliced fully to do this. A secretary 
is always more or less a confidant. He divines that 
which is not revealed to him; and Vautrot could 
not be long in discovering that his patron’s success 
did not arise, in morals from too much principle — in 
politics, from excess of conviction — in business, from 
a mania for scruples ! The intellectual superiority 
of Camors, refined and insolent as it was, aided to 
blind Vautrot, showing him evil which was not only 
prosperous, but was also radiant in grace and pres- 
tige. For these reasons he most profoundly admired 
his master — admired, imitated, aiid execrated him ! 

Camors professed for him and for his solemn airs 
an utter contempt, which he did not always take the 
trouble to conceal; and Vautrot’s limbs trembled 
when some burning sarcasm fell from such a height 
on the old wound of his vanity — that wound whicli 
was ever sore within him. What he hated most in 
Camors was his easy and insolent triumph — his rapid 
and unmerited fortune — all those enjoyments which 
life yielded him without pain, without toil, without 
conscience — peacefully tasted ! But what he hated 
above all, was that this man had thus obtained these 
things while he had vainly striven for them. 


OAMORS. 


297 


Assuredly in this Yautrot was not an exception. 
The same example presented to a healthier mind 
would not have been much more salutary, for we 
must tell those who, like M. de Camors, trample 
under foot all principles of right, and nevertheless 
imagine that their secretaries, their servants, their 
wives and their children, may remain virtuous — we 
must tell these that while they wrong others they 
deceive themselves! And this was the case with 
Ilyppolite Yautrot. 

He was about forty years of age — a period of life 
when men often become very vicious, even when 
they have been passably good up to that time. He 
affected an austere and puritanical air; was the 
great man of the cafe he frequented; and there 
passed judgment on his contemporaries and pro- 
nounced them all inferior. He was a man difficult 
to please — in point of virtue demanding heroism ; in 
talent, genius ; in art, perfection. 

His political opinions were those of Erostratus, 
with this difference — always in favor of the ancient 
— that Yautrot, after setting fire to the temple, 
would have robbed it also. In fine, he was a fool, 
but a vicious fool as well. 

If M. de Camors, at the moment of , leaving his 
magnificent study that evening, had had the bad 
taste to turn and apply his eye to the keyhole, he 
would have seen something greatly to astonish even 
him. 

He would have seen this “honorable man” ap- 
[)roach a beautiful Italian cabinet inlaid with ivory 


298 


CAMOES. 


turn over the papers in the drawers, and finally open 
in the most natural manner a very complicated 
lock, the key of which the Count at that moment 
had in his vest pocket. 

It w^as after this search that Mons. Vautrot re- 
])aired with his volume of Faust to the boudoir of 
the young Countess, at whose feet we have already 
left him too long. 


CAMORB. 


209 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE lightning’s FLASH IN THE CLEAR SKY. 

Madame de Camors had closed her eyes to con- 
ceal her tears. She opened them at the instant Vau- 
trot seized her hand and called her “ Poor angel !” 

Seeing the man on his knees, she could not com- 
prehend it, and only exclaimed simply — 

“ Are you mad, Yautrot ?” 

“Yes, I am mad!” Yautrot threw his hair hack 
with a romantic gesture common to him, and he be- 
lieved to the poets — “ Yes, I am mad with love and 
with pity, for I see your sufferings, pure and noble 
victim !” 

The Countess only stared in blank astonishment. 

“ Repose yourself with confidence,” he continued, 
“ on a heart that will be devoted to you until death 
— a heart into which your tears now roll to its most 
sacred depths!” 

The Countess did not wish her tears to roll to such 
a distance, so she dried them. 

A man on his knees before a woman he adores 
must appear to her either sublime or ridiculous. 
Unfortunately the attitude of Yautrot, at once the- 
atrical and awkward, did not seem sublime to the 
Countess. To her lively imagination it was irresist- 
ibly ludicrous. A bright gleam of amusement illu- 


300 


GAMORS. 


mined her charming countenance ; she bit lier lip to 
conceal it, but it shone out of her eyes nevertlieless. 

One should never kneel unless sure of rising a con- 
queror. Otherwise, like Vautrot, he exposes him- 
self to be laughed at. 

“Rise, my good Yautrot,” the Countess said 
gravely. “ This book has evidently bewildered you. 
Go and take some rest and we will forget this; only 
you must never forget yourself again in this man- 
ner.” 

Yautrot rose. He was livid. 

“Madame la Comtesse,” he said bitterly, “the 
love of a great heart can never be an offence. Mine 
at least would have been sincere ; mine wmuld have 
been faithful ; mine would not have been an infamous 
snare !” 

The emphasis of these words displayed so evident 
an intention, the countenance of the young woman 
changed immediately. She moved uneasily on lier 
fauteuil. 

“ What do you mean, Monsieur Yautrot ?” 

“ Nothing, Madame, which you do not know, I 
think,” he replied meaningly. 

She rose. 

“ You shall explain your meaning immediately to 
me. Monsieur!” she exclaimed; “or later, to my 
husband.” 

“ But your sadness, your tears,” cried the secretary 
in a tone of admirable sincerity — “ these made me 
sure you were not ignorant of it !” 

“ Of what ? How he hesitates ! Speak, man !” 


CAMona 


301 


“ I am not a vvretcli ! Zlove you and pity you ! — 
that is all;” and Vautrot sighed deeply. 

“ And why do you pity me ?” She spoke haugh- 
tily; and though Vautrot had never suspected this 
imperiousness of manner or of language, he reflected 
hurriedly on the point at which he had arrived. 
More sure than ever of success, after a moment he 
took from his pocket a folded letter. It was one 
with which he had provided himself to confirm the 
suspicions of the Countess, now awakened for the 
first time. 

In profound silence he unfolded and handed it to 
her. She hesitated a moment, then seized it. A 
single glance recognized the writing, for she had 
often exchanged notes with the Marquise de Camp- 
vallon. 

Words of the most burning passion terminated thus : 

“ — Always a little jealous of Mary; half vexed 
at having given her to you. For she is pretty and 
— but I! I am beautiful, am I not, my beloved ? — 
and, above all, I adore you !” 

At the first word the Countess became fearfully 
pale. Finishing, she uttered a frightful groan; re- 
read the letter and returned it to Vautrot, as if un- 
conscious of what she was doing. 

For a few seconds she remained motionless — petri- 
fied — her eyes fixed on vacancy. A world seemed 
rolling down and crushing her heart. 

Suddenly she turned, passed with rapid steps into 
her boudoir; and Vautrot heard the sound of open- 


302 


CAM0R8. 


ing and shutting drawers. A moment after she re- 
appeared with bonnet and cloak, and crossed the 
Doudoir with the same strong and rapid step. 

Vautrot, terrified to death, rushed to stop her. 

“Madame !” he cried, throwing himself before Iier. 

She waved him aside with an imperious gesture of 
her hand ; he trembled and obeyed, and she left the 
boudoir. A moment later she was in the Avenue 
des Champs Elysees^ going toward Paris. 

It was now near midnight ; cold, damp April 
weather, with the rain falling in great drops. Tlie 
few pedestrians still on the broad pavement turned 
to follow with their eyes this majestic young woman, 
whose gait seemed hastened by some errand of life 
or death. 

But in Paris nothing is surprising, for people wit- 
ness all manner of things there. Therefore the 
strange appearance of Madame de Camors did not 
excite any extraordinary attention. A few men 
smiled and nodded; others threw a few words of 
raillery at her — both were unheeded alike. She 
traversed the Place de la Concorde with the same 
convulsive haste, and passed toward the bridge. 
Arriving on it, the sound of the swollen Seine rush- 
ing under the arches and against the pillars, caught 
her ear ; she stopped, leant against the parapet, and 
gazed into the angry water ; then bowing her head 
she sighed a groaning sigh, and resumed her rapid 
walk. 

In the rue Vanneau she stopped before a brilliantly 
lighted hotel, isolated from the adjoining houses by 


CAMORS. 


303 


a garden wall. It was the hotel of the Marquise de 
Campvallon. Arrived there, the unfortunate child 
knew not what to do, nor even why she had come. 
She had some vague design as though to assure her- 
self palpably of her misfortune ; to touch it with her 
finger ; or perhaps to find some reason, some pretext 
to doubt it. 

She dropped down on a stone bench against the 
garden wall, and hid her face in both her hands, 
vainly striving to think. It was past midnight. 
The streets were deserted : a shower of rain was 
falling over Paris, and she was chilled to numbness. 

A sergent-de-ville passed by enveloped in his cape. 
He turned and stared at the young woman; ther 
took her roughly by the arm. 

“ What are you doing here T’ he said, bi-utally. 

She looked up at him with wondoring eye^. 

“ I do not know myself,” she answered. 

The man looked more closely at her, discov- 
ered through all her confusion a m.inel refi ™ement 
and the subtle perfume of purity He took ^ty on 
her. 

“ But, Madame, you cannot stay her*.,” be nned 
in a softer voice. 

“No?” 

“ You must have some great sorrow 

“Very great.” 

“ Wha4i is your name ?” 

“ La Comtesse de Camors,” she said simply. 

The man looked bewildered. 

“ Will you tell me where you live, Madame T 


304 


CAMORS. 


She gave tlie address with perfect simplicity 
and perfect indifference. She seemed to be thinking 
nothing of what she was saying. Tlie man took a 
few steps, then stopped and listened to the sound of 
wheels approaching. The carriage was empty. He 
stopped it, opened the door, and requested the Count- 
ess to get in. She did so quietly, and he placed 
himself beside the driver. 

The Count de Camors had just reached his house 
and heard with stupified surprise, from the lips of 
the femme- de-chamhre^ the details of his Avife’s mys- 
terious disappearance, when the bell rang violently. 

He rushed out and met his wife on the stairs. 
She had somewhat recovered her calmness on the 
road, and as he interrogated her with a searching 
glance, made a ghastly effort to smile. 

“ I was slightly ill and went out a little,” she 
said. “ I do not know the streets and lost my way.” 

Notwithstanding the improbability of the expla- 
nation, lie did not hesitate. He murmured a few’’ 
soft words of reproach and placed her in the hands 
of her femme-de-cJiambre, who removed her wet 
garments. 

During that time he called the sergent-de-mlle^ 
who remained in the vestibule, and closely interro- 
gated him. On learning in what street and what 
precise spot he had found the Countess, her husband 
kneAV at once and fully the whole truth. 

He went directly to his Avife. She had retired 
and was trembling in every limb.‘ One of her hands 
was resting outside the coverlet. He rushed to take 








life 

tSin 





<*?.• 







Ri|^^^^Br^nHBBflHnD^^n[g9HHRI9^N!V >\ v 





OMR-.' y-^:>^^^^^BHB[^^MMH^R 






» ^f> --: y^^rj 'Vs" ''^J' ' 

SEf ' • '^.i^v'-'; vv'^’ v-' liii' ^V' :'-5v‘'' - A- ,»' 



/. 


I. ’ 






i\ ?♦ f> f- 


4!^-S -■ • '''-'■“-.f 


'T 7 r ^ -V - 

“ 4 * /- ’ 

^ ^ I x:/ 






I •=‘* 

r 


V * .’•V"' *>»', '■ ..-■. '* * 3 , ;r .* ■ " 

mr*- :^A.. • * V <<4 • -> . 


/ ^ 


3 ^-, 






I 

• • 




. ' / 
; » ^-V ''.•?. 




■j? "’ ' '• 

0 




. f 

«* 




^ * r:t>, 


-y r 


• * % '» . 




..-4 * ^ :j 


sr 

.. i j » ^ ^ ^ 1 . 

, » ^ »“, • “■ - *w • "■' -l' 

.‘ * >i rw -\ /i: TH 

, . „ .^*'. ‘ ,. • <^'i, I ■ 

..'.y ■ ■ r - ■ . k.- cv . ' L -V i % -■ . 


< 

W"" -^t *’- ^ • “ * 0' ' 5 *^ 




.- ' T: * > -■ •,'^- 


‘ A 





‘■vV .' 


'V 


k I' >?. 1 . T ♦ '^-r% ^ "Ml 

V.: t . '" • ' . .4 , ..' ,v* 4^41 

-« -y” ^ ^ ■ . v~ ,■'- **?^*i-^ 

' ■•’ i->l * « ■ ■ ' -. Vi;. 





..fj; 




r ' 


t « .C 


'V- ? -tJLS 

i^y /f, ^ ' 







* < 


♦ c L m ^ I 






: , ,-■• ,■-•■ .•r ^ a’ . . •...;- '!„•■»// . ',; . a; -'Oj?; ,, . ..-i 4<i 





Xi •< 



CAMOES 


305 


it, but she withdrew it gently, but with sad and res- 
olute dignity. 

The simple gesture told him they were separated 
forever. 

By a tacit arrangement proposed by her and as 
lacitly accepted by him, Madame de Camors be- 
came ^ irtually a widow. 

He remained for some seconds immovable, his ex- 
pression lost in the shadow of the bed-hangings; 
then walked slowly across the chamber. The idea 
of lying to defend himself never occurred to him. 

His line of conduct was already arranged — calmly, 
methodically. But two blue circles had already sunk 
around his eyes, and his face wore a waxen pallor. 
His hands, joined behind his back, were clinched to- 
gether; and the ring he wore sparkled with their 
tremulous movement. At intervals he seemed to 
cease breathing, as he listened to the chattering teeth 
of his young wife. 

After half an hour he approached the bed. 

* “ Marie !” he said in a low voice. She turned her 
eyes gleaming with fever upon him. 

“ Marie, I am ignorant of what you know, and I 
shall not ask you,” he continued. “I have been 
very criminal toward you, but perhaps less so than 
you think. Terrible circumstances bound me with 
iron bands. Fate ruled me ! But I seek no pallia- 
tion. Judge of me as severely as you wish ; but I beg 
of you calm yourself — preserve yourself ! You spoke 
to me this morning of your presentiments — of your 
maternal hopes. Attach yourself to those thoughts. 


306 


CAMOES. 


and you will always be mistress of your life. As for 
myself, I shall be whatever you will me — a stranger 
or a friend. But now I feel that my presence makes 
you ill. I would leave you for the present, but not 
alone. Would you wdsh Madame Jaubert to come 
to you to-night ?” 

“Yes!” she murmured faintly. 

“ I shall go for her ; but it is not necessary to tell 
you there are confidences one must reserve even 
fi-om one’s dearest friends.” 

“ Except a mother ?” She murmured the question 
with a supplicating agony very painful to see. 

He grew still paler. After an instant, “Except a 
mother !” he said. “ Be it so !” 

She turned her face and buried it in the pillow. 

“Your mother arrives to-morrow, does she not?” 
She made an affirmative motion of her head. “ You 
can make your arrangements with her. I shall ac- 
cept everything.” 

“ Thank you,” she replied feebly. 

He left the room and went to find Mde. Jaubert, 
whom he awakened, and briefly told his wife had 
been seized with a severe nervous attack — the eflfect 
of a chill. The amiable little woman ran hastily to 
her friend and spent the night with her. 

But she was not the dupe of the explanation Ca- 
mors had given her. Women quickly understand 
each other in their grief. Nevertheless she asked 
no confidences and received none ; but her tender- 
uess to her friend redoubled. During the silence of 


CAMona. 


307 

that frightful night, the only service she could ren- 
der her was to make her weep. 

Nor did those laggard hours pass less bitterly for 
M. de Camors. He tried to take no rest, hut walked 
up and down his apartment until daylight in a sort 
of frenzy. The distress of this poor child wounded 
him to the heart. The souvenirs of the past rose 
before him and passed onward in sad procession. 
Then the morrow would show him the crushed 
daughter with her mother — and such a mother! 
Mortally stricken in all her best illusions, in all her 
dearest beliefs, in all connected with the happiness 
of life ! 

He found he had yet in his heart lively feelings of 
pity ; yet some remorse in his conscience. 

This weakness irritated him, and he denounced it 
to himself. Who had betrayed him? This question 
agitated him to an equal degree ; but from the first 
instant he had not been deceived in this matter. 

The sudden grief and half-crazed conviction of his 
wife, her despairing attitude and her silence, could 
only be explained by strong assurance and certain 
revelation. After having turned the matter over 
and over in his own mind, he arrived at the conclu- 
sion that nothing could have thrown such clear light 
into his life save the letters of Madame de Camp- 
vallon. 

He never wrote the Marquise, but could not pre- 
vent her writing him ; for to her, as to all women, 
love without letters was too incomplete. 


308 


CASrORS. 


But the fault of the Count — inexcusable in a man 
of his tact — was to have preserved these letters. No 
one, however, is perfect, and he was an artist. He 
delighted in these chef -d'' oeuvres of passionate elo 
(pience, was proud of inspiring them, and could not 
make up his mind to burn or destroy them. lie ex- 
amined at once the secret drawer where he had 
concealed them and, by certain signs, discovered 
the lock had been tampered with. Nevertheless 
there was no letter missing; the arrangement of 
them alone had been disturbed. 

His suspicions at once reverted to Vautrot, whose 
scruples he suspected were but slight; and in the 
morning they were confirmed beyond doubt by a 
letter from the secretary. In fact Vautrot, after 
passing on his part a most wretched night, did not 
feel his nerves equal in the morning to meeting the 
reception the Count possibly had in waiting for him. 
His letter was skilfully penned to put asleep suspi- 
cion if it had not been fully roused, and if the Count- 
ess had not betrayed him. 

It announced his acceptance of a lucrative situa- 
tion suddenly oftered him in a commercial house in 
London. He was obliged to decide at once, and to 
sail that same morning for fear of losing an oppor- 
tunity which could not recur again. It concluded 
with expressions of the liveliest gratitude and regret. 

Camors could not reach his secretary to strangle 
him ; so he resolved to pay him. He not only sent 
him all arrears of salary, but a large sum in addi 


CAMORS. 


309 


tion as a testimonial of his sympathy and good 
wishes. 

This, however, was a simple precaution ; for the 
Count apprehended nothing more from the venomous 
reptile so far beneath him, after he had once shaken 
it off. Seeing him deprived of the only weapon he 
could possibly use against him, he felt safe. Besides, 
he had lost the only interest he could desire to sub- 
serve, for he knew M. Vautrot had done him the 
compliment of courting his wife. 

And he really esteemed him a little less low, after 
discovering this gentlemanly taste ! 


810 


CAMORa. 


CHAPTER XVn. 

THE GLEAM OF LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS OF DESPAIR. 

It required on the part of M. de Camors, this 
morning, an exertion of all his courage to perform 
his duty as a gentleman in going to receive Madame 
de T^cle at the station. But courage had been for 
some time past his sole remaining virtue ; and this 
at least he sought never to lose. He received then 
most gracefully liis mother-in-law, robed in her 
mourning attire. She was surprised at not seeing 
her daughter with him. He informed her that she 
had been a little indisposed since the preceding 
evening. Notwithstanding the precautions he took 
in his language and by his smile, he could not pre- 
vent Madame de T^cle from feeling a lively alarm. 

He did not pretend, however, entirely to reassure 
her. Under his reserved and measured replies, she 
felt the presentment of some disaster. After having 
first pressed him with many questions, she kept 
silent during the rest of the ride. 

The young Countess, to spare her mother the first 
shock, had quitted her bed ; and the poor child had 
even put a little rouge on her pale cheeks. M. de 
Camors himself opened for Madame de T6cle the 
door of her daughter’s chamber, and then withdrew. 


CAMORS. 


311 


The young woman raised herself with difficulty 
from her lounge, and her mother took her in her 
arms. 

All that passed between them at first was a silent 
interchange of mutual caresses. Then the mother 
seated herself near her daughter, drew her head on 
her bosom, and looked into the depths of her eyes. 

“ What is the matter ?” she said, sadly. 

“ Oh, nothing — nothing hopeless ! only you must 
love your little Mary more than ever. Will you 
not ?” 

“Yes; but why ?” 

“ I must not worry you ; and I must not wrong 
myself either — you know why !” 

“ Yes ; but I implore you, my darling, to tell me.” 

“Very well; I will tell you everything; but, 
mother, you must be brave as I am.” 

She buried her head lower still on her mother’s 
breast, and commenced to recount to her, in a low 
voice, without looking up once, the terrible revela- 
tion which had been made to her, and which her 
husband’s avowal had confirmed. 

Madame de Tecle did not once interrupt her 
during this cruel recital. She only imprinted a 
kiss on her hair from time to time. The young 
Countess, who did not dare to raise her eyes to her, 
as though she were ashamed of another’s crime, 
might have imagined that she had exaggerated the 
gravity of her misfortune, since her mother had re- 
ceived the confidence with so much calmness. But 
the calmness of Madame de Tecle at this terrible 


312 


CAMona. 


moment was that of the martyrs; for all that could 
have been suffered by the Christians under the claws 
of the tiger, or on the rack of the torturer, this mo- 
ther was suffering at the hands of her best-beloved 
daughter. Her beautiful pale face — her large eyes 
upturned to heaven, like those they give to tiie 
pure victims kneeling in the Roman circus — ap- 
peared as though demanding of God if He really 
liad any consolation for such torture. 

When she had heard all, she summoned strength 
to smile at her daughter, who at last looked up to 
her with an expression of timid uncertainty — em- 
bracing her more tightly still. 

“Well, my darling,” said she, at last, “it is a 
great affliction, it is true. You are right notwith- 
standing ; there is nothing to despair of” 

“ Do you really believe so ?” 

“ Certainly. There is some inconceivable mystery 
under all this ; but be assured that the evil is not 
so terrible as it appears.” 

“My poor mother! but he has acknowledged 
it ?” 

“ I am better pleased he has acknowledged it. 
That proves he has yet some pride, and some good 
yet left in his soul. Then too he feels very much 
afflicted — he suffers as much as we do. Think of 
that. Let us think of the future, my darling.” 

They clasped each other’s hands, and smiled at 
one another to restrain the tears which filled the 
eyes of both. After a few minutes — “ I would wish 
much, my cliild,” said Madame de T6cle, “ to repose 


C AMORS. 


313 


for half an hour ; and then also I vvisli to arrange my 
toilet.” 

“ I will conduct you to your chamber. 0h, I can 
walk ! I feel a great deal better.” 

Madame de Camors took 'her mother’s arm and 
conducted her as far as the door of the chamber 
})repared for her. On the threshold she left her. 

“Be sensible,” said Madame de Tecle, turning 
and giving her another smile. 

“And you also,” said the young woman, whose 
voice failed her. 

Madame de Tecle, as soon as the door was closed, 
raised her clasped hands toward heaven ; then, filling 
on her knees before the bed, she buried her head in 
it, and commenced to weep despairingly. 

The library of M. de Camors was contiguous to 
this chamber. lie had been walking with long 
strides up and down this hall, expecting every mo- 
ment to see Madame de Tecle enter. As the time 
])assed on, he .sat himself down and tried to read, 
but his thoughts wandered. His ear eagerly re- 
ceived, against his will, the slightest sounds in the 
house. If a foot seemed approaching him, he rose 
suddenly and tried to compose his countenance. 
When the door of the neighboring chamber was 
opened, his agony was redoubled. He distinguished 
the whispering of the two voices ; then, an instant 
after, the dull fall of Madame de Tecle upon the 
carpet ; then her despairing sobs. M. de Camors 
threw from him violently the book which he was 
forcing himself to read, and, placing his elbows on 


314 


CAMORli, 


the bureau which was before him, hold, for a long 
time, his pale forehead tightened in his contracted 
hands. When the sound of the sobs abated and 
ceased, little by little, he breathed freer. About 
midday he received this note: 

“ If you will permit me to take my daughter to 
the country for a few days, I shall be grateful to 
you. Elise de Tecle.” 

He returned immediately this simple reply : 

“ You can do nothing of which I do not approve 
to-day and always. Camoks.” 

Madame de Tecle, in fact, having consulted the 
inclination and the strength of her daughter, had 
determined to remove her without delay, if possible, 
from the impressions of the spot where she had suf- 
fered so severely from the presence of her husband, 
and from the unfortunate embarrassment of their 
mutual situation. She desired also to meditate in 
solitude, in order to decide what course to take un- 
der such unexampled circumstances. Finally, she 
had not the courage to see M. de Camors again — if 
she ever could see him again — until some time had 
elapsed. It was not without anxiety that she await- 
ed the reply of the Count to the request she had ad- 
dressed him. 

In the midst of the troubled confusion of her ideas, 
she believed him capable of almost anything j and 


CAMORS. 


315 


ishe feared everylliiiig from him. The Count’s note 
reassured her. She hastened to read it to her daugh- 
ter; and both of them, like two poor lost creatures 
who cling to the smallest twig, remarked with pleas- 
ure the kind of respectful abandonment with which 
he had reposed their destinies in their own hands. 
He spent his whole day at the session of the Corps 
Legislatif ; and when he returned, they had de- 
parted. 

Madame de Camors woke up the next morning in 
the chamber where her girlhood had passed. The 
birds of spring were singing under her windows in 
the old ancestral gardens. As she recognized these 
friendly voices, so familiar to her infancy, her heart 
melted ; but several hours’ sleep had restored to her 
her natural courage. She banished the thoughts 
which had weakened her, rose, and went to surprise 
her mother at her first waking. Soon after, both of 
them were walking together on the terrace of lime- 
trees. It was near the end of April ; the young, 
scented verdure spread itself out beneath the sun- 
beams; the buzzing flies already swarmed in the 
half-opened roses, in the blue pyramids of lilacs, and 
in the bunches of grapes pendent from the trees. 
After a few turns made in silence in the midst of 
these fresh and enchanting scenes, the young Count- 
ess, seeing her mother absorbed in reverie, took her 
hand. 

“Mother,” she said, “do not be sad. Here we 
are as formerly — both of us in our little nork. We 
ahall be happy.’' 


316 


CA MORS. 


The mother looked at her, took her head and 
kissed her fervently on the forehead. 

“ Thou art an angel !” she said. 

It must be confessed that their Uncle des Rameurcs, 
notwithstanding the tender affection he showed 
them, was rather in the way. He had never liked 
Camors ; he had aceepted him as a nephew as he 
had accepted him for a deputy — with more of resig- 
nation than enthusiasm. His antipathy was only 
too well justified by the event ; but it was necessary 
to keep him in ignorance of it. He was an excel- 
lent man ; but rough and blunt. The conduct of 
Camors, if he had but suspected it, would surely 
have urged him to some irreparable quarrel. There- 
fore Madame de Tecle and her daughter, in his pres- 
ence, were compelled to make only half utterances, 
and maintain great reserve — just as much so as 
though he had been a stranger. This painful re- 
straint would have become, finally, insupportable had 
not the young Countess’s health, day by day, as- 
sumed a less doubtful character, and furnished them 
with excuses for their preoccupation, their disquiet, 
and their retired life. 

Madame de T5cle, who reproached herself with 
the misfortunes of her daughter, as her own work, 
and who condemned herself with an unspeakable 
bitterness, did not cease to search in the midst of 
those ruins of the past and of the present, some 
reparation, some refuge for the future. The first 
idea which presented itself to her imagination had 
been to separate absolutely, and at any cost, the 


CAMORS 


sn 

Countess froni lier husband. Under the tii>t slioek 
of fright which the duplicity of Camors had inflicted 
upon her, she could not dwell without horror on the 
thought of replacing her child at the side of such a 
man. But this separation — supposing they could 
obtain it, through the consent of M. de Camors, or 
the authority of the law — would give to the public a 
secret scandal, and might entail redoubled catastro- 
phes. Were it not for these consequences she would, 
at least, have dug between Madame de Camors and 
her husband an eternal abyss. Madame de Tecle 
did not desire this. By force of reflection she had 
Anally seen through the character of M. de Camors 
in one day — not probably more favorably, but more 
truly. Madame de Tecle, although a stranger to all 
wickedness, knew the world and knew life, and her 
])enetrating intelligence divined yet more than she 
knew certainly. She then very nearly understood 
what species of moral monster M. de Camors was. 
Such as she understood him, she hoped something 
fiorn him still. However, the state of the Countess 
oftered her in the future some coming consolation, 
which she ought not to risk depriving herself of; 
and God might permit that this pledge of this un- 
fortunate union might some day unite again the 
severed ties. 

Madame de T^cle, in communicating her reflec- 
tions, her hopes, and her fears to her daughter, 
added : “My poor child,! have almost lost the right 
to give you counsel ; but I will tell yc/u only, were it 
myself I should act thus.” 


318 


VAMOltS. 


“Very well, mother, 1 shall do so,” replied the 
young woman. 

“ Reflect well on it flrst, for the situation which 
you are about to accept will have much bitterness 
in it ; but we have only the choice of evils.” 

At the close of this conversation, and eight days 
after their arrival in the country, Madame de T6cle 
wrote M. de Camors a letter, which she read to her 
daughter, who approved of it. 

“ I understood you to say, that you would restore 
your wife her liberty if she wished to resume it. 
She neither wishes, nor could she accept it. Her 
first duty is to the child which will bear your name. 
It does not depend on her to keep this name stain- 
less. She prays you, then, to reserve for her a place 
in your house. You need not fear any trouble or 
any reproach from her. She and I know how to 
sufier in silence. Nevertheless, I supplicate you to 
be true to her — to spare her. Will you leave her 
yet a few days in peace, then recall, or come for her ?” 

This letter touched M. de Camors deeply. As 
impassible as he was, it can easily be imagined that 
after the departure of his wife he had not enjoyed 
perfect ease of mind. Uncertainty is the worst of 
all evils, because everything may be apprehended. 
Deprived entirely of all news for eight days, there 
was no possible catastrophe he did not fancy float- 
ing over his head. PTe had the haughty courage to 
conceal from Madame de Campvallon the event 


C AMORS. 


319 


which liad transpired in his house, and to leave hei 
undisturbed while he himself was sleepless for many 
nights. It was by such efforts of energy and of 
indomitable pride that this strange man preserved 
within his own consciousness a proud self-esteem. 
The letter of Madame de Tecle came to him like a 
deliverance. He sent the following brief reply : 

“ I accept your decision with gratitude and respect. 
The resolution of your daughter is generous. I have 
yet enough of generosity left myself to comprehend 
this. I am forever, whether you wish it or not, her 
friend and yours. 

“ Camoks.” 

A week later, after having taken the precaution 
of announcing his intention, he arrived one evening 
at Madame de Tecle’s. 

Ilis young wife kept her chamber. They had 
taken care to have no witnesses, but their meeting 
was less painful and less embarrassing than they 
ap[)rehended.‘ 

Madame de Tecle and her daughter found in his 
courteous reply a gleam of nobleness which inspired 
them with a shadow of confidence. Above all, they 
were proud and more averse to noisy scenes than wo- 
men habitually are. They received him then coldly 
but calmly. On his part, he displayed toward them 
in his looks and language a subdued seriousness and 
Badness, which did not lack either dignity or grace. 

The cQuversation having dwelt for some time )ji 


S20 


CAMOBS. 


the healtli of the Countess, turned on tlie current 
news, on local incidents, and took, little by little, an 
easy and ordinary tone. M. de Caraors, under the 
pretext of slight fatigue, retired as he had entered — 
saluting both the ladies, but without attempting to 
take their hands. Tlius was inaugurated, between 
Madame de Camors and her husband, the new, singu- 
lar relation which should hereafter be the only tie in 
their common life. 

The world might easily be silenced, because M. de 
Camors never had been very demonstrative in public 
toward his wife, and his courteous but reserved man 
uer toward her did not vary from his habitual de- 
meanor. He remained two days at Reuilly. 

Madame de Tecle vainly waited for these two 
(lays for a slight explanation, which she did not wish 
to demand, but which she hoped for. 

What were the terrible circumstances which had 
overruled the will of M. de Camors, to the point of 
making him forget the most sacred sentiments? 
When her thoughts plunged into this frightful mys- 
tery, they never approached the truth. • M. de Cam- 
ors might have committed this base action under the 
menace of some frightful danger to save the fortune, 
.he honor, probably the life of Madame de Camp- 
vallon. This, though a poor excuse in the mother’s 
eyes, still was an extenuation. Probably also he 
had in his heart, while marrying her daughter, the res- 
olution to break otf this fatal liaison^ which he had 
again resumed against his will, as often happens. 
On all these painful points slie dwelt after the de- 


V AM OHS. 


321 


parture of M. do Caniors, as sIk. liad done ])ro\ iou 3 
to his arrival ; confined to her own conjectures, Avhen 
she suggested to her daughter the most consolatory 
appearances. It was agreed upon that Madame de 
Camors should remain in the country until her 
lioalth was re-established: only her husband ex- 
pressed the desire that she should reside ordinarily 
on his estate at Reuilly, the chateau on which had 
recently been restored with the greatest taste. 

Madame de T5cle felt the propriety of this ar- 
rangement. She herself abandoned the old habita- 
tion of the Count de Tecle, to install herself near her 
daughter in the modest chateau which belonged to 
the maternal ancestors of M. de Camors, which we 
have already described in another place, with its 
solemn avenue, its balustrades of granite, the laby- 
rinths of hornbeams and the black fishpond, shaded 
with poplars. 

They were both there in the midst of their sweet- 
est and most pleasant souvenirs; for this little cha- 
teau, so long deserted — the neglected woods which 
surrounded it — the melancholy piece of water — 
tlie solitary nymph, — all this had been their partic- 
ular domain — the favorite framework of their rev- 
iiries — the legend of their infancy — the poetry of 
jheir youth. It was doubtless a great grief to re- 
visit again with tearful eyes, and wounded hearts, 
with heads bowed down by the storms of life, the 
familiar paths where they once knew happiness and 
peace. But nevertheless, all these dear confidants of 
your past joys, ol’ your blasted hopes, of your van- 


322 


CAMOnS. 


islied dreams — if they are mournfiu witnesses they 
are also friends. You love them ; and they seem to 
love you. It was thus that tliese two poor women, 
straying amid these woods, these waters, these soli- 
tudes, bearing with them their incurable wounds, 
fancied they heard voices which pitied them and 
breathed a healing sympathy. The most cruel trial 
which was reserved to Madame de Camors in the 
life which she had the courage and judgment to 
adopt, was assuredly the duty of again seeing the 
Marquise de Campvallon, and preserving with her 
such relations as might blind the eyes of the General 
and those of the world. 

She resigned herself even to this ; but she desired to 
defer as long as possible the pain of such a meeting. 
Her health supplied her with a natural excuse for not 
going, during that summer, to Campvallon, and also 
keeping herself confined to her own room the day tlie 
Marquise visited Reuilly, accompanied by the General. 

Madame de Tecle received her with her usual 
kindness. Madame de Campvallon, whom M. de 
Camors had already warned, did not trouble herself 
much ; for the best women, like the worst, excel in 
comedy, and everything passed off without the Geu- 
eneral having conceived the shadow of a suspicion. 

The fine season had passed. M. de Camors liad 
visited the country several times, strengthening at 
every interview the new tone of liis relations with 
his wife. He remained at Reuilly, as was his cus- 
tom, during the month of August ; and under the 
pretext of the health of the Countess, did not mul- 


CAMORS. 


323 


tiply liis visits that year to Csmpvalloii. On his re- 
turn to Paris, he resumed his old habits, and also his 
careless egotism, for he recovered little by little from 
the blow he had received. He began to forget his suf- 
ferings — and even more, those of his wife ; and even 
CO felicitate himself secretly on the turn that chance 
had given to her situation. He had obtained the 
advantage and had no longer any annoyance. His 
wife had been enlightened, and he no longer deceived 
her — which was a comfortable thing for him. As 
for her, she would soon be a mother, she would have 
a plaything, a consolation ; and he designed redoub- 
ling his attentions and regards to her. 

She would be happy, or nearly so ; — as much as 
two-thirds of the women in the world. 

Everything there was for the best. He gave anew 
the reins to his car and launclied himself afresh on 
his brilliant career — proud of his royal mistress, and 
foreseeing in the distance, to crown his life, tlie tri- 
umphs of ambition and power. Assigning various 
doubtful engagements, he only went to Reuilly once 
during the autumn ; but he wrote frequently, and 
Madame de Tecle sent him in return brief accounts 
of his wife’s health. 

One morning toward the close of JSTovember, he 
received a despatch which made him understand, in 
telegraphic style, that his presence was immediately 
required at Reuilly, if he wished to be., present at the 
birth of his son. 

Whenever social duties or courtesy were required 
of M. de Camors, lie never hesitated. Seeing he had 


S24 


CAMona. 


not a moment to spare if he wislied to catch the train 
which left that morning, he jumped into a cab and 
drove to the station. His servant would join him 
the next morning. 

The station at Reuilly was several miles distant 
from the house. In the confusion no arrangement 
had been made to receive him on his arrival, and he 
was obliged to content himself with making the in- 
termediate journey in a heavy country- wagon. The 
bad condition of the roads was a new obstacle, and 
it was three o’clock in the morning when the Count, 
impatient and travel- worn, jumped out of the little 
cart before the railings of his avenue. He strode 
toward the liouse under the dark and silent dome of 
the tufted elms. He was in the middle of the av- 
enue when a sharp cry rent the air. His heart 
bounded in his breast : he suddenly stopped and lis- 
tened attentively. The cry echoed through the still- 
ness of the night. You would have deemed it the 
despairing shriek of a human being under the knife 
of a murderer. 

These dolorous sounds gradually ceasing, he con- 
tinued Jiis walk with greater haste, and only heard the 
hollow and muffled sound of his own beating heart. 
At the moment he ^saw the lights of the chateau, 
another agonized cry, more shrill and alarming than 
the first, arose. 

This time Camors stopped. Notwithstanding the 
natural explanation of these agonized cries presented 
itself to his mind, he was troubled. 

It is not unusual that men accustomed like him to 


OAMons. 


S!25 

a purely artificial life, feel a strange surprise when 
some one of the simplest laws of nature presents 
itself all at once before them with a violence as im 
perious and irresistible as a divine law. Camors 
soon reached the house, and receiving some informa- 
tion from the servants, notified Madame de T^cle 
of his arrival. Madame de Tdcle immediately de- 
scended from her daughter’s room.^ On seeing her 
convulsed features and streaming eyes, “Are you 
alarmed ?” Camors asked quickly. 

“Alarmed? No,” she replied; “but she sufiers 
much, and it is very long.” 

“ Can I see her ?” 

There was a moment’s silence. 

Madame de Tecle, whose forehead was contracted, 
lowered her eyes, then raised them. “ If you insist 
on it,” she said. 

“ I insist on nothing ! If you believe my presence 
would do her harm — ” The voice of Camors was not 
as steady as usual. 

“ I am afraid,” replied Madame de T^cle, “ that it 
would agitate her greatly ; and if you will have con- 
fidence in me, I shall be greatly obliged to you.” 

“ But at least,” said Camors, “ she might/probably 
be glad to knoAV that I have come, and that I am 
here — that I have not abandoned her.” 

“I shall tell her.” 

“ It is well.” He saluted Madame de T^cle with a 
slight movement of his head, and turned away imme- 
diately. 

He entered the garden at the back of the house. 


(jaMoM. 


d2C 

and walked by chance from alley to alley. We 
know that generally the rdle of men in the situation 
in which M. de Camors at this moment was placed 
has nothing very easy or very glorious ; but the com- 
mon annoyance of this position was particularly 
aggravated to him by painful reflections. Not only 
was his assistance not needed, but it was repulsed ; 
not only was he far from a support — on the contrary, 
he was but an additional danger and sorrow. There 
was in this thought a bitterness which he keenly felt. 
His native generosity, his humanity, shuddered as he 
lieard the frightful cries and accents of distress which 
succeeded each other without intermission. He passed 
some heavy hours in this damp garden this cold 
night, and the chilly morning which succeeded it. 
Madame de Tecle came frequently to give him the 
news. Near eight o’clock he saw her approach him 
with a tranquil and grave air. 

“ Monsieur,” she said, “ it is a boy.” 

“ I thank you. How is she ?” 

“Well. I shall request you to go and see her in 
an instant.” 

Half an hour later she reappeared on the threshold 
of the vestibule, and called — 

“ Monsieur de Camors !” and when he approached 
her, she added with an emotion which made her lips 
tremble — 

“ She has been uneasy for some time past. She is 
afraid that you have kept terms with her to take the 
child. If ever you have such a thought — not now, 
Monsieur. Have you ?” 


0AMOR8. 


^21 

“ You are severe, Madame,^’ he replied in a hoarse 
voice. 

She breathed a sigh. 

‘‘ Come,” she said, and led the way up stairs. She 
opened the door of the chamber and permitted him 
to enter it alone. 

Ills first glance caught the eyes of his young wife 
fixed upon him. She was half sitting up in bed, 
supported by pillows, and whiter than the curtains 
whose shadow enveloped her. She held clasped to 
lier breast her sleeping infant, which was already 
covered, like its mother, with lace and pink ribbons. 
From the depths of this nest she fixed on her hus- 
band her large eyes, sparkling with a kind of savage 
light — an expression in which the sentiment of tri- 
umph was blended Avith one of profound terror. 
He stopped within a few feet of the bed, and saluted 
her with his most winning smile. 

“ I have pitied you very much, Marie,” he said. 

“ Thanks,” she replied, in a voice as feeble as a 
sigh. 

She continued to regard him with the same sup- 
pliant and afii’ightened air. 

“ Are you a little happier now ?” he continued. 

The glittering eye of the young woman was fast- 
ened on the calm face of her infant. Then turning 
toward Camors — 

“ You will not take him from me ?” 

“ Hever !” he replied. 

As he pronounced these words his eyes were sud- 
denly dimmed, and he was astonished himself to feel 


328 


t AMORS. 


a tear trickling down his cheek. He experienced a 
singular feeling, he bent over, seized the folds of the 
sheet, raised them to his lips, rose immediately and 
left the room. 

In this terrible struggle, too often victorious 
against nature and truth, this man was for once van- 
quished. But it would be idle to imagine that a 
character of this temperament and of this obduracy 
could transform itself, or could be materially modi 
lied under the stroke of a few transitory emotions, 
or of a few nervous shock's. M. de Camors rallied 
quickly from this weakness, if even he did not re- 
pent it. He spent eight days at Reuilly, remarking 
in the countenance of Madame de Tecle, and in her 
intercourse with him, more ease than formerly. 

On his return to Paris, with thoughtful care he 
made some changes in the interior arrangement of 
his hotel. This was to prepare for the Countess and 
her son, who were to join him a few weeks later 
larger and more comfortable apartments, in which 
they were to be installed. 


CAMORS. 


329 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

i 

THE REPTILE TURNS TO STING. 

When Madame de Camors came to Paris and 
entered the home of her husband, she there experi- 
enced the painful impressions of the past, and the 
sombre preoccupations of the future ; but she brought 
there with her, although in a fragile form, a most 
powerful consolation. 

Assailed by grief and ever menaced by new emo- 
tion, she was obliged to renounce the nursing of her 
child ; but, nevertheless, she never left him, for she 
was jealous even of his nurse. She at least wished 
to be loved by him. She loved him with an infinite 
passion. She loved him because he was her own 
son and of her blood. He was the price of her mis- 
fortune — of her pain. She loved him because he 
was her only hope of human happiness hereafter. 
She loved him because she found him as beautiful 
as the day. And it was true he was so ; for he re- 
sembled his father — and she loved him also on that 
account. She tried to concentrate her heart and all 
her thoughts on this dear creature, and at first she 
thought she had succeeded. She was surprised at 
herself, at her own tranquillity, when she saw Ma- 
dame de Campvallon ; for her lively imagination had 


830 


CAMORS. 


exhausted, in advance, all the sadness which her ngw 
existence could contain ; but when she had lost the 
kind of torpor into which excessive suifering had 
plunged her — when her maternal sensations were a 
little quieted by custom— her woman’s heart recov- 
ered itself in the mother’s. She could not prevent 
herself from renewing her passionate interest in her 
graceful though terrible husband. 

Madame de Tecle had come to pass two months 
with her daughter in Paris, and then returned to the 
country. 

Madame de Camors wrote to her, in the commence- 
ment of the following spring, a letter which gave 
her an exact idea of the sentiments of this young 
woman at the time, and of the turn her domestic 
life had taken. After a long and touching detail of 
the health and beauty of her son Robert, she added : 

“ His father is always to me what you have seen 
him. He spares me everything he can spare me, but 
evidently the fatality he has obeyed continues under 
the same form. Notwithstanding, I do not despair 
of the future, my beloved mother. Since I saw that 
tear in his eye, confidence has entered my poor heart. 
Be assured, my adored mother, that he will love 
me one day, if it is only through our child, whom 
he commences quietly to love without himself per- 
ceiving, it. At first, as you remember, this infant 
was no more to him than I was. When he surprised 
liim on my knee, he would give him a cold kiss, say, 
' (Toqd-niorning, sir,’ and withdraw. It is just one 


CAMORS. 


331 


month — I have forgotten the date — it was, ‘ Good- 
morning, my son — how pretty you are !’ You see 
the progress ; and do you know, finally, what' passed 
yesterday? I entered Robert’s room noiselessly; 
the door was open — what did I behold, my mother ! 
M. de Camors, with his head resting on the pillow 
of the cradle, and laughing at this little creature, who 
smiled back at him ! I assure you, he blushed and 
excused himself : ‘ The door was open,’ he said, ‘ and 
I came in.’ I answered him, there was nothing 
wrong. 

“ M. de Camors is very odd sometimes. He occa- 
sionally passes the limits which were agreed upon as 
necessary. He is not only polite, but takes great 
trouble. Alas ! at other times these courtesies would 
have fallen upon my heart like roses from heaven — 
now they annoy me a little. Last evening, for exam- 
ple, I sat down, as is my custom, to my piano after 
dinner, he reading a journal at the chimney-corner — 
his usual hour for going out passed. Behold me, 
much surprised. I threw a furtive glance, between 
two bars of music, at him : he was not reading, he 
was not sleeping — he was dreaming. ‘ Is there any 
thing new in the Journal T — ‘Ho, no; nothing at 
all.’ Another two or three bars of music, and I 
entered my son’s room. He was in bed and asleep. 
I devoured him with kisses and returned — M. de Ca- 
mors still there. And now, surprise after surprise : 
‘ Have you heard from your mother ? What does 
she say? Have you seen Madame Jaubert? Have 
you read this review?’ Just like one who sought to 


532 


CAMORS. 


open a conversation. Once I w^uld willingly have 
paid with my blood for one of these evenings, and 
now he offers them to me, when I know not what to 
do with them. Notwithstanding I remember the ad- 
vice of my mother, I do not wish to discourage these 
symptoms. I adopt a festive manner. 1 light four 
extra wax-lights. I try to be amiable without being 
coquettish ; for coquetry here would be shameful — 
would it notj my dear mother ? Finally, we chatted 
together; he sang two airs to the piano; I played 
two others ; he painted a little Russian costume for 
Robert^next year then talked politics to me. This 
enchanted me. He explained to me his situation in 
the Chamber. Midnight arrived ; I became remark- 
ably silent ; he rose : ‘ Can I press your hand in 
friendship ?’ — ‘ Mon Dieu / yes.’ ‘ Good-night, Ma- 
rie.’ — ‘Good-night.’ Yes, my mother, I read your 
thoughts. There is danger here ! but you have 
shown it to me ; and I believe, also, I should have 
perceived it by myself Do not, then, fear. I shall 
be happy at his good inclinations, and shall encour- 
age them to the best of my power; but I shall not 
be in haste to perceive a return, on his part, toward 
virtue and myself. I see here in society arrange- 
ments which revolt me. In the midst of my misfor- 
tune I remain pure and proud ; but I should fall into 
the deepest contempt of myself if I should ever per- 
mit myself to be a plaything for M. de Camors. A 
man so fallen does not raise himself in a day. If 
ever he really returns to me, it will be necessary for 
me to have much proof I have never ceased to love 


CAMORS. 


333 


him, and probably he doubts it : but he will learn 
that if this sad love can break my heart it can never 
abase it ; and it is unnecessary to tell my mother, that 
I shall live and die courageously in my widow’s robe. 

“ There are other symptoms which also strike me. 
lie is more attentive to me when she is present. 
This may probably be arranged between them, but 
I doubt it. The other evening we were at the Gen- 
eral’s. She was waltzing, and M. de Camors, as a 
rare favor, came and seated himself at your daugh- 
ter’s side. In passing before us she threw him a 
look — a flash. I felt the flame. Her blue eyes glared 
ferociously. He perceived it. I have not assuredly 
much tenderness for her. She is my most cruel 
enemy ; but if ever she suffers what she has made 
me suffer — yes, I believe I shall pity her. My mo- 
ther, I embrace you. I embrace our dear lime-trees. 
I chew their young leaves as in olden times. Scold 
me as in old times, and love, above all things, as in 
old times, your “MAEtE.” 

This wise young woman, matured by misfortune, 
observed everything — saw everything — and exag- 
gerated nothing. She touched, in this letter, on the 
most delicate points in the household of M. de Ca- 
mors — and even of his secret thoughts — with accurate 
justice. For Camors was not at all converted, nor 
near being so ; but it would be belying human nature 
to attribute to his heart, or that of any other human 
being, a supernatural impassibility. If the dark and 
implacable theories which M. de Camors had made 


334 


CA3I0B8. 


the law of his existence could triumph absolutely, 
this would be true. The trials he had passed 
through did not reform him, they only staggered 
him. He did not pursue his paths with the same 
firmness; he strayed from his progranime. He 
pitied one of his victims, and, as one wrong always 
entails another, after pitying his wife, he came near 
loving his child. These two weaknesses had glided 
into his petrified soul as into a marble fount, and 
there took root — two imperceptible roots, however. 
The child scarcely occupied him more than a few 
moments every day. He thought of him, however, 
and would return home a little earlier than usual 
each day than was his habit, secretly attracted by 
the smile of that fresh face. The mother was for 
him something more. Her sufierings, her youthful 
heroism had touched him. She became in his eyes 
somebody. He discovered many merits in her. He 
perceived she was remarkably well-informed for a 
woman, and prodigiously so for a French woman. 
She understood half a word — knew a great deal — 
and guessed at the remainder. She had, in fine, 
that blending of grace and solidity which gives to 
the conversation of a woman of cultivated mind an 
incomparable charm. Habituated» from infancy to 
her mental superiority as to her pretty face, she car- 
ried the one as unconsciously as the other. She 
devoted herself to the care of his household as 
though she had no idea beyond it. There were 
domestic details which she would not confide to 
servants. She followed them into her salons^ into 


CAMOMS, 


335 


her boudoirs, a blue feather brush in hand, lightly 
dusting the etaghres^ the jardiniers^ the consoles. 
She arranged one piece of furniture and removed 
another, put flowers in a vase — gliding about and 
singing like a bird in a cage. 

Her husband sometimes amused himself in follow- 
ing her with his eye in these household occupations. 
She reminded him of the princesses one sees in the 
ballet of the opera, who were reduced by some 
change of fortune to a temporary servitude, and who 
dance while putting the house in order. 

“ How you love order, Marie !” said he to her one 
day. 

“ Order!” she said gravely, “ it is the moral beauty 
of things.” 

She emphasized the word things — and fearing she 
might be considered pretentious, she blushed. 

She was a lovable creature, and it can be under- 
stood that she might have many attractions, even 
for her husband. Yet though he had not for one in- 
stant the idea of sacrificing to her the passion that 
ruled his life, it is certain, however, that his wife 
[fleased him as a charming friend, which she was, 
ind probably as a charming forbidden fruit, which 
she also was. Two or three years passed without 
making any sensible change in the personal relations 
of the different persons in this history. This was 
the most brilliant phase and probably the happiest 
in the life of M. de Camors. 

Ilis marriage had doubled his fortune, and his 
clever speculations augmented it every day. 


356 


CAMORS 


had increased the retinue of his house in proportion 
to his new resources. In the region of elegant higli 
life he decidedly held the sceptre. His horses, his 
equipages, his artistic tastes, even his toilet set the 
law. 

His liaison with Madame de Campvallon, without 
being proclaimed, was suspected, and completed his 
prestige. At the same time his capacity as a politi- 
cal man commenced to be acknowledged. He had 
spoken in some recent debate, and his maiden speech 
was a triumph. His prosperity was great. It was 
nevertheless true that M. de Camors did not enjoy 
it without trouble. Two black spots darkened the 
sky above his head, and might contain destroying 
thunder. His life was eternally suspended on a 
thread. 

Any day General Campvallon might be informed 
of the intrigue which dishonored him, either througli 
some selfish treason, or through some public rumor, 
wliich began to spread. Should this ever happen, 
he knew the General would never submit to it ; and 
he had determined never to defend his life against 
his outraged friend. 

This resolve, firmly decided upon in his secret soul, 
gave him the last solace to his conscience. 

All his future destiny was thus at the mercy of 
an accident most likely to happen. 

The second cause of his disquietude was the jeal- 
ous hatred of Madame Can^pvallon against the young 
rival she had herself selected. 

After having jested freely on this subject at first, 


camoM 


337 


the ]^tarqlllse had, little by little, ceased even to 
allude to it. 

M. de Camors could not misunderstand certain 
mute symptoms, and was sometimes alarmed at this 
silent jealousy. Fearing to exasperate this most 
violent feminine sentiment in so strong a soul, he was 
compelled day by day to resort to tricks which 
wounded his pride, and probably his heart also ; for 
his wife, to whom his new conduct was inexplicable, 
suffered intensely, and he saw it. 

One evening in the month of May, 1860 , there 
was a reception at the Hotel Campvallon. 

The Marquise, before leaving for the country, was 
making her adieus to a choice group of her friends. 

Although thisjfe^e professed to be but a sociable 
gathering, she had organized it with her usual ele- 
gance and taste. 

A kind of gallery, composed of verdure and of 
flowers, connected the salons with the conservatory 
at the other end of the garden. 

This evening proved a very painful one to the " 
Countess de Camors. Her husband’s neglect of her 
was so marked, his assiduities to the Marquise so 
persistent, their mutual understanding so apparent, 
that the young wife felt the pain of her desertion to 
an almost insupportable degree. 

She went and took refuge in the conservatory, and 
finding herself alone there, commenced weeping. 

A few moments later, M. de Camors, not seeing 
her in the salon, became uneasy. 

She saw him, as he entered the conservatory, by 


338 


CAMOM 


one of those instantaneous glances by which women 
contrive to see without looking. She pretended to 
be examining the flowers, and by a strong efibrt of 
will dried her tears. Her husband advanced slowly 
toward her. 

“ What a magnificent camelia !” he said to her. 
“ Do you know this variety ?” 

“Very well,” she replied; ‘‘this is the camelia 
that weeps.” 

He broke ofi* the flowers. 

“ Marie,” he said, “ I have never been much ad- 
dicted to sentimentality, but this flower I shall 
keep.” 

She turned upon him her astonished eyes. 

“Because I love it,” he added. 

The noise of a step made them both turn. It was 
Madame de Campvallon, who was crossing the con- 
servatory on the arm of a foreign diplomat. 

“ Pardon me,” she said, smiling ; “ I have dis- 
turbed you ! How awkward of me !” and she passed 
out. 

Mde. de Camors suddenly grew very red, and her 
husband very pale. The diplomat alone did not 
change color, for be comprehended nothing. The 
young Countess, undt.r pretext of a headache, which 
her face did not belie, returned immediately, prom- 
ising her husband to send back the carriage for him. 
Shortly after, the Marquis de Campvallon, obeying a 
secret sign from M. de Camors, rejoined him in the 
retired boudoir, which recalled to them both the 
most culpable incident of their lives. She sat down 


OAMOns. 

beside him on the divan with a haughty noncha- 
lance. 

“ What is it ?” she said. 

“ Why do you watch me ?” asked Camors. “ It 
is unworthy of you !” 

“ Ah ! an explanation ? disagreeable thing. It is 
the first between us — at least let us be quick and 
complete.” 

She spoke in a voice of restrained passion — her 
eyes fixed on her foot, which she twisted in her satin 
shoe. 

“Well, tell the truth,” she said. “ You are in love 
with your wife.” 

He shrugged his shoulders. “ Unworthy of you, 
I repeat.” 

“ What then mean these delicate attentions to 
her ?” 

“ You ordered me to marry her, but not to kill 
her, I suppose ?” 

She made a strange movement of her eyebrows, 
which he did not see, for neither of them looked at 
the other. After a pause she said : 

“ She has her son ! She has her mother ! I have 
no one but you ! Hear me, my friend ; do not^make 
me jealous, for when I am so, ideas torment me 
which terrify even myself. Wait an instant. Since 
we are on this subject, if you love her, tell me so. 
You know me — you know I am not fond of petty 
artifices. Well, I fear so much the sufferings and 
humiliations of which I have a presentiment, I am 
so much afraid of myself, that I offer you, and give 


340 


cAUona 


you, your liberty. I prefer tliis horrible grief, but 
ivhich is at least open and noble ! It is no snare 
that I set for you, believe me ! Look at me. I sel- 
dom weep.” The dark blue of her eyes was bathed 
in tears. “Yes, I am sincere ; and I beg of you, if it 
it is so, profit by this moment, for if you let it 
escape, you will never find it again.” 

M. de Camors was little prepared for this decided 
proposal. The idea of his breaking off his liaison 
with the Marquise never had entered his mind. This 
Liaison seemed to him very reconcilable with the 
sentiments his wife could inspire him with. 

It was at the same time the greatest wickedness 
and the perpetual danger of his life, but it was also 
the excitement, the pride and the magnificent vo- 
luptuousness of it. He shuddered. The idea of losing 
the love which had cost him so dear, exasperated 
liim. He cast a burning glance on this beautiful 
face, refined and exalted as that of a warring arch- 
angel. 

“My life is yours,” he said. “How could you 
have dreamed of breaking ties like ours? How 
could you have alarmed yourself, or even thought 
of my feel’ings toward another ? I do what honor 
and humanity command me — nothing more. As 
for you — I love you — understand that.” 

“ Is it true ?” she asked. “ It is true ! I believe 
you !” 

She took his hand, and gazed at him a moment 
without speaking — her eye dimmed, her bosom pal- 
pitating ; then suddenly rising, she said, “ My friend, 


C AMO ns. 


341 


yon know I have guests !” and saluting him with a 
smile, left the boudoir. 

This scene, however, left a disagreeable impres- ^ 
sion on the mind of Camors. 

He thought of it impatiently the next morning, 
while trying a horse on the Champs Elysees — when 
he suddenly found himself face to face with his 
former secretary, Vautrot. He had never seen this 
personage since the day he had thought proper to 
give himself his own dismissal. 

The Champs Ely sees was deserted at this hour. 
Vautrot could not avoid, as he had probably done 
more than once, encountering Camors. 

Seeing himself recognized he saluted him and 
stopped, with an uneasy smile on his lips. His worn 
black coat and doubtful linen showed a poverty un- 
acknowleged but profound. M. de Camors did not 
notice these details, or his natural generosity would 
have been awakened, and have curbed the sudden 
indignation which took possession of him. 

He reined in his horse sharply. 

“Ah, is it you, M. Vautrot?” he said. “You 
have left England then ! What are you doing now ?” 

“I am looking for a situation, M. de Camors,” 
said Vautrot humbly, who knew his old patron too 
well not to read clearly in the curl of his moustache 
the prognostic of a storm. 

“ And why,” said Camors, “ do you not return to 
your trade of locksmith ? You were so skilful at it I 
The most complicated locks had no secrets for 
you.” 


342 


9AM0RS 


“ I do not understand your meaning,” murmured 
Yautrot. 

• “Droll fellow!” and throwing out these words 
with an accent of withering scorn, M. de Camors, 
touching lightly with the end of his riding-whip the 
shoulder of Vautrot, tranquilly passed on at a walk. 

Yautrot was truly in search of a place had he con- 
sented to accept one fitted to his talents ; but he was, 
as will be remembered, one of those whose vanity 
was greater than his merits, and one who loved em- 
ployment better than work. 


CAMORS. 


343 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE SECOND iCT OF THE TRAGEDY. DISCOVERT - — 

DEATH. 

Vautrot Tihd 'at this time fallen into the depth 
of want and distress, which, if aggravated, would 
prompt him on to evil and even to crime. AYe have 
had in our day more than one example of the ex- 
tremes to which this kind of intelligence, at once 
ambitious, grasping, yet impotent, can transport its 
possessor. Vautrot, in awaiting better times, had 
relapsed into his old rSle of hypocrite, in which he 
had formerly succeeded so well. Only the evening 
before he had returned to the house of Madame de la 
Roche- Jugan, and made honorable amends for his 
philosophical heresies ; for he was like the Saxons in 
the time of Charlemagne, who asked to be baptized 
every time they wanted a new tunic. Madame de 
la Roche- Jugan had given a kind reception to this 
sad prodigal son, but she chilled perceptibly, on see- 
ing him more discreet than she desired on certain 
subjects, which she had set her heart upon unravel- 
ling- 

She was now more preoccupied than ever about 
the relations which she suspected to exist between 
M. de Camors and Madame Campvallon. These re- 


344 


C A MORS. 


latioiis could not but proA^e fatal to the hopes she had 
so long founded on the widowhood of the Marquise 
and the heritage of the General. The marriage of 
M. Camors had for the moment deceived her, but 
she was one of those pious people who always think 
evil, and whose suspicions are soon reawakened. 
She tried to obtain from Yautrot, who had so long 
been intimate with her nephew, some explanation of 
the mystery; and Yautrot having been too prudent 
to enlighten her, she turned him out of doors. 

After his encounter with M. de Camors, he imme- 
diately turned his steps toward the rue St. Domi- 
nique., and an hour later Madame de la Roche had the 
pleasure of knowing all he knew of the liaison be- 
tween the Count and the Marquise. But we remem- 
ber that he knew everything. These revelations, 
though not unexpected, terrified Madame Roche- 
Jugan, who saw her maternal projects utterly de- 
stroyed forever. To her bitter feeling at this de- 
ception was immediately joined, in this base soul, a 
sudden thirst for revenge. It was true she had been 
badly recompensed for her anonymous letter, by 
which she had previously attempted to open tlie 
eyes of the unfortunate General ; for from that mo- 
ment the General, the Marquise, and M. de Camors 
liimself, without an open rupture, let her feel their 
marks of contempt, which ulcerated her heart. She 
never would again expose herself to a similar slight 
of this kind ; but she must assuredly, in the cause of 
good morals, at once confront the blind with the 
culpable, and this time with such proofs as would 


CAMOBS. 


3i5 


make the blow irresistible. By the mere thought, 
Madame de la Roche had persuaded herself that the 
new turn events were taking might become favor- 
able to the expectations which had become the fixed 
idea of her life. 

Madame de Campvallon destroyed, M. de Cam- 
ors set aside, the General would be alone in the 
world ; and it was natural to suppose he would turn 
to his young relative Sigismund, if only to recognize 
the far-sighted afiection and wounded heart of Ma- 
dame la Roche-Jugan. 

The General in fact, had by his marriage contract 
settled all his property on his wife ; but the blind 
mother, who had consulted a lawyer on this question, 
knew that he had the power of alienating his fortune 
during life, and of stripping his unworthy wife and 
transferring it to Sigismund. 

Madame de Roche-Jugan did not slirink from the 
probability — which was most likely — of an encounter 
between the General and Camors. Every one knows 
the disdainful intrepidity of women in the matter of 
duels. She had no scruple, therefore, in engaging 
Vautrot in the meritorious work she meditated. She 
secured him by some immediate advantages and by 
promises ; she made him believe the General would 
recompense him largely. Yautrot, smarting still 
from the cut of Camors’ whip on his shoulder and 
who would have killed him with his own hand had 
he dared, required scarcely the additional stimulus 
of gain to aid his protectress and her vengeance by 
acting as her instrument. 


346 


CAMORS. 


lie resolved, however, since he had the opportu- 
nity, to put himself, once for all, beyond misery and 
want, by cleverly speculating, through the secret he 
held, on the great fortune of the General. This se - 
cret he had already given to Madame de Camors 
under the inspiration of another sentiment, but he 
had then in his hands the proofs, which he now was 
without. 

It was necessary, then, for him to arm himself witl) 
new and infallible proofs ; but if the intrigue he was 
required to unmask still existed, he did not desj^air 
of detecting something certain, aided by the general 
knowledge he had of the private habits and ways of 
Count Camors. This was the task to which he ap- 
plied himself from this moment, day and night, with 
an evil ardor of hate and jealousy. The absolute 
confidence which the General reposed in his wife and 
the Count Camors after the latter’s marriage with 
Madame de Tecle, had doubtless allowed them to dis- 
])ense with much of the mystery and adventure of 
their intrigue ; but that which was ardent, poetic, 
and theatrical to the Marquise’s imagination had not 
been lost. Love alone was not sufficient for her. 
She needed danger, scenic effect, and pleasure height- 
ened by terror. Once or twice, in the early time, 
she was reckless enough to leave her hotel during 
the night and to return before day. But she was 
obliged to renounce these audacious flights, finding 
them too perilous. 

These nocturnal interviews with M. de Camors 
were rare, and she had usually received him at home. 


CAMORS. 


347 


This was their arrangement: An open space, some- 
times used as a wood-yard, was next the garden of 
the Hotel Campvallon. The General had purchased 
a portion and had a cottage erected in the midst of a 
kitchen garden, and had placed in it — with his usual 
kind-heartedness — an old soiis-qfficier, named Mesnil, 
who had served under him in the artillery. This 
Mesnil enjoyed his master’s confidence. He was a 
kind of forester on the property : he lived the win- 
ter in Paris, but occasionally passed two or three 
days in the country whenever the General wished to 
obtain information about the crops. It was the 
time of these absences that Madame Campvallon 
and M. de Camors chose for their dangerous inter- 
views at night. Camors, apprised from within by 
some understood signal, entered the enclosure sur- 
rounding the cottage of Messnil, and thence pro- 
ceeded to the garden of the hotel. Madame de 
Campvallon always charged herself with the peril 
that charmed her — with keeping open one of the win- 
dows of the rez-de-chaussee. The Parisian custom 
of lodging the domestics up in the attics gave to 
this hardihood a sort of security, notwithstanding its 
being always hazardous. Near the end of May, one 
of these occasions, always impatiently awaited on 
both sides, presented itself, and M. de Camors at 
midnight penetrated into the little garden of the old 
sous-officier. At the moment when he turned the 
key in the gate of the enclosure, he thought he heard 
a slight sound behind him. He turned, cast a rapid 
glance over the dark space that surrounded him, and 


548 


CAM Oils 


tliinkiiig himself mistaken, entered. An instant after, 
the shadow of a man appeared at the angle of a ])ile 
of lumber, which was scattered over the carpenter’s 
yard. This shadow remained for some time immov- 
able in front of the windows of the hotel and then 
plunged, again into the darkness. 

The following week M. de Caniors was at the 
Club one evening, playing whist with the General. 
He remarked that the General was not playing his 
usual game, and saw also imprinted on his features 
a painful preoccupation. 

“ Are you in pain. General ?” said he, after they 
had finished their game. 

“No, no!” said the General; “I am only annoyed 
— a tiresome affair between two of my people in the 
country. I sent Mesnil away this morning to ex- 
amine into it.” 

The General made a few steps, then returned to 
Camors and took him aside : “ My friend,” he said, “ I 
deceived you, just now; I have something on my 
mind — something very serious. I am even very un- 
happy !” 

“ What is the matter ?” said Camors, whose heart 
sank. 

“ I shall tell you that probably to-morrow. Come, 
in any case, to see me to-morrow morning. Won’t 
you ?” 

“ Yes, certainly.” 

“ Thanks. Now I shall go — for I am really not 
well” 


C AMORS. 


349 - 


lie squeezed liis hand more affectionately than 
usual. 

“Adieu, my dear child,” he added, and turned 
around brusquely to hide the tears which suddenly 
filled his eyes. M. de Camors experienced for some 
moments a lively disquietude, but the friendly and 
tender adieus of the General reassured him that it 
did not relate to him. Still he continued astonished 
and even affected by the sad emotion of the old 
man. 

Was it not strange ? If there was one man in the 
world whom he loved, or to whom he would have 
devoted himself, it was this one whom he had mor- 
tally wronged. 

He had, however, good reason to be uneasy, and 
was wrong in reassuring himself ; for the General 
ui tlie course of that evening had been informed of 
tlie treachery of his wife — at least he had been pre- 
l)ared for it. Only he was still ignorant of the name 
of lier accomplice. 

Those who informed him were afraid of encoun- 
tering the blind and obstinate faith of the General, 
had they named Camors. 

It was probable, also, after what had already oc- 
curred, that had they again pronounced that name, 
the General would have repulsed the suspicion as a 
monstrous impossibility, regretting even the thought. 

M. de Camors remained until one o’clock at the 
Club and then went to the rue Vanneau. He was 
introduced into the Hotel Campvallon with the cus- 


S50 


CAMORS. 


tomary precautions j and this time we shall follow 
him there. In traversing the garden, he raised 
his eyes to the General’s window, and saw the soft 
light of the night-lamp burning behind the blinds. 

The Marquise awaited him at the door of her 
boudoir, whijh opened on a circular passage at an 
elevation of a few feet. He kissed her hand, and told 
her in few words of the General’s sadness. 

She replied she had been very uneasy about his 
health for some days. This explanation seemed 
natural to M. de Camors, and he followed the Mar- 
quise through the dark and silent salon. She held 
in her hand a candle, the feeble light of which threw 
f>n her delicate features a strange pallor. When 
they passed up the long, sounding staircase, the 
rustling of her dress on the steps was the only sound 
which betrayed her light movement. 

She stopped from time to time, all shivering — as 
if to better taste the dramatic solemnity which sur- 
rounded them — turned her blonde head a little to look 
at Camors ; then cast on him her inspiring smile, placed 
her hand on her heart, as if to say, “ I am fearful,” 
and continued to proceed. They reached her cham- 
ber, where a dim lamp faintly illumined the sombre 
magnificence, the sculptured wainscotings, and the 
heavy draperies. 

The flame on the hearth wliich flickered up at in- 
tervals, threw a bright gleam on two or three pic- 
tures of the Spanish school, which were the only 
decorations of tlis sumptuous, but stern-looking 
apartment. 


CAMORS. 


351 


The Marquise sank as if terrified on a divan near 
the chimney ; then pushing with her feet two cushions 
on which Camors half reclined before her; she then 
pushed back with her two hands the thick braids of 
her hair, and leant towards her lover. 

“ Do you love me to-day ?” she asked. 

The soft breath of her voice was passing over the 
fiice of Camors, when the door suddenly opened be- 
fore them. The General entered. The Marquise 
and Camors instantly rose to their feet, and standing 
side by side motionless, gazed upon him. The Gen- 
eral paused near the door. As he saw them a shud- 
der passed over his frame, and his face assumed a 
livid pallor. For an instant his eye rested on Camors 
with a stupified surprise and almost bewilderment; 
then he raised his arms over his head, and his two 
hands struck together with a sharp sound. At this 
terrible moment Madame Campvallon seized the arm 
of Camors, and threw him a look so profound, sup- 
plicating, and tragic, that it alarmed him. 

He roughly pushed her from him, crossed his arms, 
and waited the result. 

The General walked slowly toward him. All at 
once his face became inflamed with a purple color ; 
his lips half opened, as about to deliver some deadly 
insult. He advanced rapidly, his hand raised ; but 
after a few steps the old man suddenly stopped, beat 
the air with both hands, as if seeking some support, 
then staggered and fell forward, striking his head 
against the marble mantelpiece, rolled on the carpet 
and remaine 1. motionless. Then there ensued in this 


352 


OAAtORS 


chamber a sinister silence. A stifled cry from M, de 
Camors broke it. At the same time he threw him- 
self on his knees by the side of the motionless old 
man, touched first his hand, then his heart. He saw 
tbat he was dead. A thin thread of blood trickled 
down his pale forehead where it had struck the mar- 
ble ; but this was only a slight wound. It was not 
that which killed him. What had killed him was 
the treachery of those two beings whom he had 
loved, and who, he believed, loved him. His heart 
had been broken by the violence of the surprise, the 
grief, and the horror. 

One look of Camors told Madame Campvallon she 
was a widow. She threw herself on the divan, 
buried her face in the cushions and sobbed aloud. 
Camors still stood, his back against the mantelpiece, 
his eyes fixed, wrapt in his own thoughts. He Avished 
in all sincerity of heart that he could have awakened 
the dead and restored him to life. He had sworn to 
deliver himself up to him without defence, if evei 
the old man demanded it of him for forgotten favors, 
betrayed friendship and violated honor. Now he 
had killed him. If he had not slain him with his 
own hand, the crime was still there, in its most 
hideous form. He saw it before him, he smelt its 
odor — he breathed its blood. An uneasy glance of 
the Marquise recalled him to himself and he ap- 
proached her. They then conversed together in 
whispers, and he hastily explained to her the line of 
conduct she should adopt. 

She must summon the servants, say the General 










Nv 


> • 

“5 









\ \ 


.f 




* ■- » 


» •» 




/ 


« 


1 


« 




» 


I 


I 


r 


k 


4 


> 

4 










k 


t • 


I 


*. 



« r 


1 ' 


»* ’ . 
s. • 

r - f 

• k 

I 

- 'V 






I 





,. * 


« 


✓ 


I 


€ 


> 


N 


I 


\ 




f 


f 


!i 








V 






i 




% 


•/ 


% 


1 


4 


I 


k 


« 




t 




» 





I 


^ r. 


I 

t 


\ . 


I ' 


« 


> 




» 


I 


I 




I 


. I 


* 


t 


* 


i 

j 



> 

V . ^ 



t ^ 





V- >;■• - 




I 


r 




CAMORS. 


353 


was taken suddenly ill, and that on entering her 
room he had been seized by an apoplectic stroke. 

It was with some eflbrt she understood she was to 
wait long enough before giving the alarm, to give 
Camors sufficient time to escape ; and until then she 
was to remain in this frightful Ute-d-tete^ alone with 
the dead. 

He pitied her, and decided on leaving the hotel 
by the apartment of M. Campvallon, which had a 
private entrance on the street. 

The Marquise immediately rang violently several 
times, and Camors did not retire till he heard the 
sound of hastening feet on the stairs. The apart- 
ment of the General communicated with that of his 
wife by a short gallery. There was a suite of apart- 
ments — first a study, then his sleeping-room. M. 
Camors traversed this room with feelings we shall 
not attempt to describe and gained the street. The 
surgeon testified that the General had died from the 
rupture of a vessel in the heart. Two days after the 
interment took place, at which M. Camors attended. 
The same evening he left Paris to join his wife, who 
had gone :o Reuilly the preceding week. 


CAMOES. 


r?/)4 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE FEATHER IN THE BALANCE. 

One of the sweetest sensations in the world, is 
that of a man who has just escaped tlie fantastic ter- 
rors of nightmare ; and who awaking, his forehead 
bathed with icy-sweat, says to himself, “ It was but 
a dream !” This was, in some degree, the impression 
which Camors felt on awaking, the morning after 
his arrival at Reuilly, when his first glance fell on 
the sunlight streaming over the foliage, and when 
he heard beneath his window the joyous laugh of 
his little son. He, however, was not dreaming ; but 
his soul, crushed by the horrible tension of recent 
emotions, had a moment’s respite, and drank in, al- 
most without alloy, the new calm that surrounded him. 
He hastily dressed himself and descended to the gar- 
den, where his son ran to meet him. M. de Camors 
embraced him with unusual tenderness ; and leaning 
toward him, spoke to him in a low voice, and asked 
after his mother — about his plays — with a singularly 
soft and sad .manner. Then he let him go, ^id 
walked with a slow step, breathing the fresh morn- 
ing air, examining the leaves and the flowers with 
extraordinary interest. From time to time a deep, 


CAMORS. 


355 


i&d sigh broke from his oppressed chest ; he passed 
his hand over his brow as if to efface the importu- 
nate images. He sat down amid the quaintly 
clipped boxwood, which ornamented the garden in 
the antique fashion ; called his son again to him ; held 
him between his knees, interrogating him again, 
in a low voice, as he had already done; then 
drew him toward him and clasped him tightly for a 
long time, as though to draw into his own the inno- 
cence and peace of the child’s heart. Madame de 
Camors surprised him in this gush of feeling, and 
remained mute with astonishment. He rose imme- 
diately and took her hand. 

“ How well you bring him up !” he said. “ I 
thank you for it. ‘ He will be worthy of you and of 
your mother.” 

She was so surprised at the soft and sad tone of 
his voice, that she replied, stammering with embar- 
rassment, “And worthy of you also, I hope.” 

“ Of me ?” said Camors, whose lips were slightly 
tremulous. “ Poor child, I hope not !” and rapidly 
withdrew. 

Madame de Camors and Madame de Tecle had 
learned, the previous morning, the death of the Gen- 
eral. The evening of the Count’s arrival they did 
not speak to him on the subject, and were cautious 
not to make any allusion to it. The next day, and 
the succeeding ones, they practised the same re- 
serve, though very far from suspecting the fatal 
circumstanc(3S which rendered this souvenir so pain- 
ful to M. de Camors. They thought it only natural 


356 


CAMOnS. 


he should be pained at so sudden a catastrophe, and 
that his conscience should be disturbed ; but they 
were astonished when this impression prolonged 
itself from day to day, until it took the appearance 
of a lasting sentiment. 

They began to believe that there had arisen be- 
tween Madame Campvallon and himself, probably 
occasioned by the General’s death, some quarrel 
which had weakened the tie between them. 

A journey of twenty-four hours, which he made 
fifteen days after his arrival, was to them a confir- 
mation of the truth they before suspected ; but his 
prOm])t return, his new tastes, which kept him at 
lleuilly during the summer, seemed to them favora- 
ble symptoms. 

He was singularly sad, pensive, and more inactive 
than usual with his habits. He took long: walks 
alone. Sometimes he took his son with him, as 
though by chance. He sometimes attempted a little 
timid tenderness with his wife ; and this awkward 
ness, on his part, was quite touching. 

“ Marie,” he said to her one day, “ you, who are a 
fairy, wave your wand over Reuilly and make of it 
an island in mid-ocean.” 

“You say that because you know how to swim,” 
said she, laughing and shaking her head ; but the 
heart of the young woman was joyful. 

“ You embrace me now every moment, my little 
one,” said Madame de T^cle to her “ Is this really 
all intended for me ?” 

“My adorable mother,” while embracing her 


CAMORS. 


35 


again, “ I assure you he is really courting me again. 
Why, I am ignorant; but he is courting me and 
you also, my mother. Observe it !” 

Madame de T^cle did observe it. In his conver- 
sation with her, M. de Camors sought, under every 
pretext, to recall the souvenirs of the past, common 
to them both. It seemed he wished to link the past 
with his new life ; to forget the rest, and pray of 
them to forget it also. 

It was not without fear that these two charming 
women abandoned themselves to their hopes. They 
remembered they were in the presence of an uncer- 
tain person ; they little trusted a change so sudden, 
the reason of which they could not comprehend. 
They feared it was some passing caprice, which would 
return to them, if they were its dupes, all their 
misfortunes, without the dignity which had hitherto 
attended them. 

They were not the only ones struck by this trans- 
formation. M. des Rameures remarked it to them. 
The neighboring country people felt in the Count’s 
language something new and, as it were, a tender 
humility — saying, in other years he had been polite, 
but this year he was good. Even the inanimate 
things, the woods, the trees, the heavens, should 
have borne the same testimony, for he looked at 
and studied them with a benevolent curiosity with 
which he had never before honored them. 

In truth, a profound trouble had invaded him and 
would not leave him. More than once, before this 
epoch, his soul, his philosophy, his pride, had re- 


358 


CAMORS. 


Eeived a rude shock, but he had no less pursued his 
path, rising after every blow, like a lion wounded, 
but unconquered. In trampling under his feet all 
moral belief which binds the vulgar, he had reserved 
honor like an inviolable limit. Then, under the 
empire of his passions, he said to himself, that after 
all, honor like all the rest, was conventional. Then 
he encountered crime — he touched it with his hand 
— horror seized him — and he recoiled. He repulsed 
with disgust the principle which had conducted him 
there — asked himself what would become of human 
society if it had no other. The simple truths 
which he had misunderstood now appeared to him 
in their tranquil splendor. He did not yet distin- 
guish them clearly ; he did not try to give them a 
name, but he plunged with a secret delight into their 
shadows and their peace. He asked for them in the 
pure heart of his child, in the pure love of his young 
wife, in the daily miracles of nature, in the harmo- 
nies of the heavens, and probably already in the 
depths of his thoughts — of God. In the midst of 
this approach toward a new life he hesitated. Mad- 
ame de Campvallon was there. He loved her yet 
vaguely. Above all, he could not abandon her with- 
out a kind of baseness. Terrible struggles agitated 
him. After having done so much evil, would it be 
permitted him to do good, and gracefully partake of 
the joys he foresaw? These ties with the past, his 
fortune dishonestly acquired, his fatal mistress — the 
spectre of that old man — would they permit it? 
And we may add, would Providence sulFer it? Not 


CAMORS. 


359 


that we would wish lightly to use, as is often done, 
this word Providence, and to suspend over M. de 
Camors this menace of supernatural chastisement. 
Providence does not intervene in human events ex- 
cept through the logic of her eternal laws. She has 
only the sanction of these laws ; and it is for this 
reason she is feared. At the end of the month of 
August M. de Camors repaired, as was his custom, 
to the principal town in the disti’ict, to perform his 
duties in the Council-General. The session finished, 
he paid a visit to Madame Campvallon before re- 
turning to Reuilly. He had neglected her a little 
in the course of the summer, and had only visited 
Campvallon at long intervals, as politeness com- 
pelled him. The Marquise wished to keep him for 
dinner, as she had no guests with her. She pressed 
him so warmly that, blaming himself all the time, 
he consented. Ite never saw her without j3ain. She 
always brought back to him those terrible memories, 
but also that terrible intoxication. She was never 
more beautiful. Her deep mourning embellished 
yet more her languishing and regal grace; it made 
her pale complexion yet more fair, and it heightened 
the brilliancy of her look. She had the air of a 
young tragic queen, or of an allegory of night. In 
the evening an hour arrived when the reserve which 
for some time had marked their relations, was foi- 
gotten. M. de Camors found himself, as in olden 
time, at the feet of the young Marquise — his eyes in 
hers, and covering with kisses her lovely hands. 
She was strange that evening. She looked at him 


300 


cxMoits. 


with a wild tenderness, instilling, at pleasure, into 
his veins the poison of burning passion : then escap- 
ing him, the tears gathering in her eyes. All at 
once, by one of those magical movements of hers, 
she enveloped 'with her hands the head of her lover, 
and spoke to him quite low beneath the shadow of 
this perfumed veil. 

“We might be so happy !” she said. 

“ Are we not so ?” said Camors. 

“ No ! I at least am not, for you are not all mine, 
as I am yours. This appears harder, now that I am 
f^*ee. If you had remained free — when I think of 
it ! or if you could become so, it would be heaven !” 

“ You know that I am not so ! Why speak of 
it ?” 

She drew nearer to him, and with her breath, more 
than with her voice, answered — 

“ Is it impossible ? Tell me 

“ How ?” he demanded. 

She did not reply, but her fixed look, caressing 
and cruel, answered him. 

“ Speak, then, I beg of you !” murmured Camors. 

“ Have you not told me — I have not forgotten it — 
that we are united by ties stronger than all others ; 
that the world and its laws exist no longer for us ; 
that there is no other good, no other bad for us, but 
our happiness or our unhappiness ? Well, we are not 
happy, and if we could be so — listen, I have thought 
well over it !” 

Her lips touched the cheek of Camors, and the 
murmur of her last words was lost in her kisses. 


CAMOMS 


361 


Camors roughly repulsed her, sprang up, and stood 
before her. 

“ Charlotte,” he said sternly, “ this is , a trial, I 
hope ; but trial or no, never repeat it — never ! Re- 
member !” 

She also quickly drew up her figure. 

“ Ah ! how you love her !” she cried. “ Yes, you 
love her, it is she you love — I know it, I feel it, and 
I — I am only the wretched object of your pity, or 
of your caprice. Very well, go back to her — go 
and protect her, for I swear to you she is in peril !” 

' He smiled with his haughty irony. 

^ “ Let us see your plot,” he^said. “So you intend 

to kill her?” 

“ If J can !” she said ; and her superb arm was 
stretcned out as though to seize a weajion. 

“ What ! with your own hand ?” 

“ The hand shall be found.” 

“You are so beautiful at this moment !” said Ca- 
mors ; “ I am dying with the desire to fall at your 
feet. Acknowledge only that you wished to try me, 
or that you were mad for a moment.” 

Slie gave a savage smile. 

“Oh! you fear, my friend,” she said coldly; then 
raising again her voice, which assumed a malignant 
tone, “You are right, I am not mad, I did not wisli 
to try you ; I am jealous, I am betrayed, and I shall 
revenge myself — no matter what it costs me — for I 
care for nothing more in this world ! — Go, and guard 
her 1” 

“ Be it so ; I go,” said Camors. lie immediately 


362 


CAMORH. 


left the salon and the chateau ; he reached the rail- 
way station on foot, and that evening reached 
Reuilly. 

Something terrible there awaited him. 

During his absence Madame de Camors, accom- 
panied by her mother, had gone to Paris to make 
some purchases. She remained there three days. 
She only returned that morning. He himself arrived 
late in the evening. He thought he observed some 
constraint in their reception of him, but he did not 
dwell upon it in the state of mind in which he was. 

This is what had occurred : Madame de Camors, 
during her stay in Paris, had gone, as was her cus- 
tom, to visit her aunt, Madame de la Roche- Jugan. 
Their intercourse had always been very constrained. 
Neither their characters nor their religion coincided. 
Madame de Camors contented herself with not lik- 
ing her aunt, but Madame de la Roche hated her 
niece. She found a good occasion to prove it to her, 
and did not lose it. They had not seen each other 
since the General’s death. This event, which should 
have caused Madame de la Roche to reproach lier- 
self, had simply exasperated her. Her bad action 
had recoiled upon herself. The death of M. Camp- 
vallon had linally destroyed her last hopes, which 
she had believed she could have founded on the anger 
and desperation of the old man. Since that time 
she was animated against her nephew and the Mar- 
quise with the fury of a Megara. She learned 
through Vautrot that M. Camors had been in the 
chamber of Madame Campvallon the night of the 


CAM0R8. 


363 


General’s death. On this foundation of truth slie 
did not fear to frame the most odious suspicions ; and 
Vautrot, baffled like her in his vengeance and in his 
envy, had aided her. A few sinister rumors, escap- 
ing apparently from this source, had even crept at 
this time into Parisian society. 

M. de Camors and Madame Campvallon suspect- 
ing they had been betrayed a second time by Mad- 
ame la lioche-Jugan, had broken with her; and ^e 
could presume on presenting herself at the door of 
the Marquise, that orders had been given not to ad- 
mit her. This affront made her sorer still. She was 
yet a prey to the violence of her anger when she re- 
ceived a visit from Madame de Camors. She affected 
to make the General’s death the theme of conversa- 
tion — shed a few tears over her old friend, and kiss- 
ed the hand of her niece with a burst of tenderness. 

“ My poor little thing !” she said to her ; “ it is for 
you also I weep — for you will be yet more unhappy 
than heretofore, if that can be possible.” 

“I do not understand you, Madame,” answered 
the young woman coldly. 

“ If you do not understand me, so much the better,” 
replied Madame de la Roche, with a shade of bitter- 
ness; then after a moment’s pause — “Listen, my 
dear little thing ! this is a duty of conscience which 
I comply with. You see an honest creature like 
you merits a better fate ; and your mother too, who 
is also a dupe. This man would deceive the good 
God. In the name of my family, I feel bound to 
ask your pardon for both of them.” 


364 


CAMOBS. 


“ I repeat, Madame, that I do not understand you.^' 

“ But it is impossible, my child — come — it is im- 
possible that all this time you have suspected noth- 
ing.” 

“I suspect nothing, Madame,” said Madame de 
Camors, “ because I know all.” 

“ Ah !” continued drily Madame la Roche ; “ il 
this be so, I have nothing to say. But there are 
persons, in that case, who can accommodate their 
conscience to very strange things.” 

“ That is what I thought a moment since, Mad- 
ame,” said the young woman, rising. 

“ As you wish, my dear little thing ; but I speak 
in your own interest ; and I shall reproach myself 
for not having spoken to you more clearly. I know 
my nephew better than you will ever know him ; and 
the other also. Notwithstanding you say so, you 
tlo not know all, let me tell you. The General died 
very suddenly ; and after him, it is your turn ! Be 
very careful, my poor child !” 

“ Oh, Madame !” cried the young woman, becom- 
ing ghastly pale ; “ I shall never see you again while 
I live!” She left on the instant — ran home, and 
there found her mother. She repeated to her the 
terrible words she had just heard, and her mother 
tried to calm her ; but she herself was disturbed. 
She went immediately to Madame Jugan, and she 
supplicated her to have pity on them and to retract 
the abominable innuendo she had thrown out, or to 
explain it more fully. She made her understand 
that she would inform M. de Camors of the affair in 


CAMORS. 


365 


case of need, and that he would hold his cousin Sigis 
niund. responsible. Terrified in her turn, Madame 
Jugan judged the best method was to destroy M. de 
Oamors in the estimation of Madame de Tecle. She 
related what had been told her by Vautrot, being 
careful not to compromise herself in the recital. She 
informed her of the presence of M. de Camors at the 
General’s house the night of his death. She told 
her of the reports that were circulated, and min- 
gling calumny with truth, redoubling at the same 
time her affection, her caresses, and her tears, she 
succeeded in giving Madame de Tecle such an esti- 
mate of the character of M. de Camors, that there 
were no suspicions or apprehensions which the poor 
woman, from that moment, did not consider legiti- 
mate as connected with him. 

Madame de la Roche finally offered to send Vau- 
trot to her, that she might herself interrogate him. 
Madame de Tecle affecting an incredulity and a tran- 
quillity she did not feel, refused and withdrew. 

On her returning to her daughter, she excited her- 
self to deceive her as to tlie impressions she had re- 
ceived, but she did not succeed ; for her anxious 
face belied her reassuring words. They separated 
the following night, mutually concealing the trouble 
and distress of their souls ; but accustomed so long 
to think, feel, and suffer together, they met, so to 
speak, in the same reflections, the same reasonings, 
and in the same terrors. They went over in their 
memories all the incidents of the life of Camors-- all 
his faults ; and under the shadow of the monstrous 


366 


CAMORS. 


action imputed to him, his faults took a criminal 
character which they were surprised they had not 
seen before. They discovered a series and a sequence 
in his designs, all of which were imputed to him as 
crimes — even his good actions. Thus his conduct 
during the last few months, his strange ways, his 
fancy for his child and for his wife, his assiduous 
tenderness toward her, was nothing more than the 
hypocritical meditation of a new crime — a mask 
which he was preparing in advance. 

What was to be done ? What kind of life was it 
possible to live in common, under the weight of such 
thoughts? What present — what future? These 
thoughts bewildered them. Next day M. Camors 
could not fail remarking the singular change in their 
countenances in his presence ; but he knew that his 
servant, without thinking of harm, had spoken of his 
visit to Madame Campvallon, and he attributed the 
coldness and embarrassment of the two women to 
this fact. He was less disquieted at this, because he 
was resolved to keep them entirely safe. As a result 
of his reflections during the night, he had determined 
to break ofi* forever his intrigue with Madame Camp- 
vallon. For this rupture, which he had made it a 
point of honor not to provoke, Madame Campvallon 
had herself furnished him a suflicient pretext. The 
criminal thought she had confided to him was, he 
knew, only a feint to test him, but it was enough 
to justify his abandonment of her. As to the violent 
and menacing words the Marquise had used, he held 
them of little value, though at times the remembrance 


C A MORS. 


367 


of them troubled him. Nevertheless, for many years 
he had not felt his heart so light. This wicked tie 
broken, it seemed as though that he had resumed, 
with his liberty, his youth and virtue. He walked 
and played a part of the day' with his little son. 
After dinner, just as night fell, clear and pure, he 
proposed to Madame de Camors a tUe-d-tete excur- 
sion in the woods. He spoke to her of a view which 
had struck him shortly before on such a night, and 
which would please, he said laughingly, her roman- 
tic taste. 

He would not permit himself to be surprised at 
the disinclination she manifested, at the disquietude 
which her face indicated, or at the rapid glance she 
exchanged with her mother. 

The same thought, and that a most frightful one, 
entered the minds of both these unfortunate women 
at the same moment of time. 

They were still under the impression of the shock 
which had so weakened their nerves, and the brusque 
proposition of M. de Camors, so contrary to his usual 
habits — the hour, the night, and the solitary walk — 
had suddenly awakened in their brains the sinister 
images which Madame la Roche-Jugan had laid 
there. Madame de Camors, however, with an air of 
resolution the circumstance did not seem entitled to 
demand, prepared immediately to go out, then fol- 
lowed her husband out of the house, leaving her little 
son in charge of her mother. They had only to cross 
the garden to find themselves on the edge of the 
wood which almost touched their dwelling, and which 


368 


VAMORS. 


stretched to the old fields inherited from Count de 
Tecle. The intention of Camors in seeking this 
tete-d-t^te was to confide to his wife the decisive 
determination he had taken of delivering up to 
her absolutely and without reserve his heart and 
life, and to enjoy in these solitudes his first taste of 
true happiness. Surprised at the cold distraction 
with which his young wife replied to the affectionate 
gayety of his language, he redoubled his efforts to 
bring their conversation to a tone of more intimacy 
and confidence. While stopping at intervals to point 
out to her some effects of light and shadow in their 
walk, he commenced questioning her on her recent 
trip to Paris, and on the persons she had seen there. 
She named Madame Jaubert and a few others; then 
lowering her voice against her will, mentioned Ma- 
dame la Roche- Jugan. 

“ That one,” said Camors, “ you could very well 
have dispensed with. I forgot to warn you that I 
no longer knew her.” 

“ Why ?” asked she timidly. 

“Because she is a bad woman,” said Camors. 
“ When we are a little more intimate with each 
other, you and I,” he added laughing, “ I shall edify 
you on this character, I shall tell you all — all^ under- 
stand.” 

There was so much of nature, and even of jrood- 
ness in the accent with which he j)ronounced these 
words, that tlie Countess felt her heart half comforted 
from the oppression which had weighed it down. 
She gave herself up with more abandon to the gra- 


cAkoits. 


3()S» 

cious advances of her husband and to the siiglit in- 
cidents of her walk. 

The phantoms disappeared little by little, from 
her mind, and she commenced to say to herself that 
she had been the sport of a bad dream, and of a true 
madness, when a singular change in her husband’s 
face renewed all her terrors. M. de Camors, in his 
turn, had become absent and visibly preoccupied 
with' some grave care. He spoke witli an effort, 
made half replies, meditated; then stopping quickly 
to look around him, like a frightened child. These 
strange ways, so different from his former temper, 
alarmed the more tlie young woman, Avho just then 
found herself in the most distant part of the wood. 

There was an extraordinary similarity in the 
thoughts which occupied them both. At the mo- 
ment when Madame Camors was trembling for fear 
near her husband, he was trembling for her. 

He thought he detected they were followed, at 
different times ; he thought he heard in the thicket 
the cracking of branches, rattling of the leaves, and 
finally the sound of stealthy steps. These noises al- 
ways ceased on his stopping, and they commenced 
again the moment he resumed his walk. He thought, 
a moment later, he saw the shadow of a man pass 
rapidly among the underwood behind them. The 
idea of some woodman came first to his mind, but 
he could not reconcile this with the persistence with 
which they were followed. 

He finally had no doubt that they were dogged — 
but by whom ? The repeated menaces of Madame 


370 


CAMORS. 


Campvallon against the lil*e of Madame Camors — 
che passionate and unbridled character of this wo- 
man, soon presented itself to his mind, and suggested 
this mysterious pursuit, and awakened these fright- 
ful suspicions. 

He did not imagine for a moment that the Mar- 
quise would charge herself personally with the in- 
fliction of her vengeance ; but she had said — he then 
remembered — that the hand would be found. She 
was rich enough to find it, and this hand might now 
be here. 

He did not wish to alarm his wife by calling her 
attention to this spectre, which he believed at her 
side, but he could not hide from her his agitation, 
which every movement of his caused her to construe 
as falsely as cruelly. 

“Marie,” he said, “let us walk a little faster, I 
beg of you ! I am cold.” 

He quickened his steps, resolved to return to the 
cliateau by the public road, which was bordered 
with houses. 

When he reached the border of the woods, al- 
though he thought he still heard at intervals the 
sound which had alarmed him, he reassured himself 
and resumed his flow of spirits as if a little ashamed 
even of his panic. He stopped the Countess to look 
at the pretext of this excursion. This was a wall 
of rock over a high excavation, long since aban- 
doned. The arbutus-trees of fantastic shape which 
covered the summit of these rocks, the pendent 
vines, the sombre ivy which carpeted the elifi*s, the 


CAMORS, 


:ni 

whiteness of the rock, the black sliadows of the 
fish-pond which occupied the foundations of the 
gulf — all these gave, under the bright moonlight, a 
spectacle of savage beauty. There had also been 
along the edges of this excavation some land-slides, 
and the thorny plants growing on the edges com- 
pelled those who wished to pass from the wood to 
the open road to make a long detour. Two trunks 
of trees had been thrown across the narrowest part 
of the excavation, forming a species of bridge — al- 
ways giving those who ventured upon it the most 
complete and picturesque view of this romantic spec- 
tacle. 

Madame de Camors had never before seen this 
species of bridge, which her husband had recently 
placed there. After some minutes of contemplation, 
as he was showing her with his hands the two 
trunks of the trees — 

“Must we pass there?” she asked in a broken 
voice. 

“ If you are not afraid,” said Camors ; “ and after 
all, I shall be with you.” 

He saw she hesitated, and her face, under the 
moonlight, seemed to him to become so strangely 
pale that he could not refrain from saying — 

“ I thought you were braver.” 

She hesitated no longer, but put her foot on the 
perilous bridge against her wish, always cautiously 
advancing. She half turned her head, and her step 
became unsteady. All at once she staggered. Ca- 
mors rushed to catch her, and in the trouble of the 


m 


camohs. 


moment his hand struck her with some force. The 
unfortunate woman uttered a sliriek— made a ges- 
ture as if to push him off, and repulsing him, rushed 
wildly over the bridge and ran into the woods. M. 
de Camors, ixipulsed and frightened, not knowing 
her thoughts, followed her in great haste. 

He found her near the bridge, with her back lean- 
ing against the first tree, her face turned tow^ard 
him, terrified, yet menacing. 

“ Coward !” she said. 

lie looked at her with real bewilderment ; when 
he heard the sound of rapid footsteps and a shadow 
passed out of the depth of the wood. He recog- 
nized Madame de Tecle. She ran toward them 
palpitating, excited, seized the hand of her child, 
and turned toward him — 

“ Both here !” she cried. 

Now he understood all. A strangled cry rattled 
in his throat ; he pressed his forehead convulsively 
between his two hands, and let fall his arms de- 
spairingly; then he said in a hoarse voice: 

“You take me for a murderer?” and stamped in 
the wild agony of his rage. 

“Well, what are you doing there? Save your- 
selves then !” 

Terrified, they obeyed him — they fled — the mo- 
ther dragging her daughter with long strides ; and he 
saw them disappear in the night. 

He remained there, in this wild place. The hours 
passed on without his numbering them. Sometimes 
he went up and down in the narrow space which 























i 


< 



/ 


* ^ • N 

•w 

<1 


I 


V 

; 




• » 


I 


'r\ 


t 




1 


■ » 


■ •• 


r -afr ^ 

\ . 
S 


« 


4 





I 


I 



< 

< 





« 




> 






\ ; 
1 . ♦ 
\ ^ 


I 


I 


^ r 






/ 


1 




. • ■• 


^ 




G AMORS. 


5 ?^ 

separated the bridge from the abyss ; sometimes 
stopping suddenly, his eyes lowered and fixed, he 
seemed as immovable and senseless as the trunk of 
the tree against which he leaned. If there is, as we 
hope, a divine hand which weighs in a just balance 
our griefs against our faults, these moments ought to 
have been counted for this man. 


374 




CHAPTER XXL 

THE CURTAIN FALLS. 

Early next morning Madame de Campvallon was 
walking on the borders of a circular piece of water 
which ornamented the lower part of her park, wherf 
you could see through the trees the reflections h 
the water. She was walking round it with a slow 
step ; her head bent down ; trailing on the sand her 
long mourning robe ; and escorted by two large swans, 
dazzling in their whiteness, who seemed to be wait- 
ing for some cakes from her hands, and swam in the 
current at her side. All at once Camors appeared 
before her. She had believed she never should see 
him again. She raised her head, and put her hand 
quickly on her breast. 

“ Yes, it is I,” he said. “Give me your hand !” 

She gave it to him. 

“You were right, Charlotte,” he continued; “tiei^ 
like ours cannot be broken. I had thought of doing 
so. It is a cowardice for which I reproach myself; 
and for which I have been punished sufficiently. 
But I beg you to pardon me.” 

She drew him gently some steps into the shadow 
of the trees which enveloped the water. She knelt 


CaMOHS. 


S7a 

down before him with theatrical grace, and fixed on 
Camors her swimming eyes. She covered liis head 
with kisses. He raised her up and pressed her to 
his heart. 

“ But you do not wish that crime?” he said in a 
low voice. 

She bent her head with mournful indecision. 

“For that matter,” he added bitterly, “it would 
only make us worthier of each other ; for, as to my- 
self, they have already believed me capable of it.” 

He took her arm and recounted to her briefly the 
scene of the last night. 

He told her he had not returned home, and never 
should. This was the result of his mournful medi- 
tations. To attempt an explanation with those who 
had so mortally outraged him — to open to them the 
depth of his heart — to tell them of this criminal 
thought they had accused him of — he had repulsed 
with horror, the evening before, when proposed by 
another. He thought of all this ; but this humilia- 
tion — if he could have so abased himself — would 
have been useless. How could he hope to conquer 
by these words the distrust capable of creating sucli 
suspicions ? 

He confusedly divined the origin, and understood 
that this distrust, envenomed by the souvenirs of the 
past, was incurable. 

The sentiment of the irreparable, of revolted pride, 
indignation, and even injustice, had shown him but 
one refuge, and it was this one to which he had fled. 

The Countess de Camors and Madame de T^clo 


370 


C AMORS. 


only learned through their servants and the public, 
of the removal of the Count to a country-house he 
had rented near the chateau Campvallon. After 
having: written ten letters — all of which he had burnt 
— he had decided to maintain an absolute silence. 
They sometimes trembled at the thought he might 
take his son. He thought of it ; but it was a kind 
of vengeance he disdained. 

This move, which publicly proclaimed the rela- 
tions existing: between M. de Camors and the Mar- 
quise, made a sensation in the Parisian world, where 
it was soon known. It again revived the strange 
souvenirs and strange rumors, all remembered. 
Camors heard of them, but despised them. 

His pride, which was then exasperated by a sav- 
age irritation, was gratified at defying public opin- 
ion, which had been so easily duped before. He 
knew there was no situation one could not impose 
on the world with wealth and audacity. From this 
day he resumed energetically the love of his life, his 
habits, his labors, and his thoughts for the future. 
Madame Campvallon was the confidant of all his 
projects, and added her own care to them ; and 
both of them occupied themselves in organizing in 
advance their mutual existence, hereafter blended 
forever. The personal fortune of- M. de Camors, 
united to that of the Marquise, left no limits to the 
fancies which their imagination could devise. They 
aiTanged to live separately at Paris, but the Mar- 
quise’s salon should be common to both ; but their 
double influence would shine at the same time, and 


CAMOBS. 


?77 


they would be the social centre of a sov^ereign influ- 
ence. The Marquise would reign by the splendor 
of her person over the society of letters, art, and 
politics. Camors would there find the means of 
action which could not fail to accelerate the high 
destiny to which his talent and his ambition callied 
him. 

This was the- life that had appeared to them in the 
origin of their liaison as a sort of ideal of human 
happiness — that of two superior beings, who proudly 
divided, above the masses, all the pleasures of earth, 
the drunkenness of passion, the enjoyment of mind, 
the satisfaction of pride and the emotions of pow- 
er. The edat of such a life would constitute the 
vengeance of Camors, and force those to repent bit- 
terly, who had dared to misunderstand him. The 
recent mourning of the Marquise commanded them, 
notwithstanding, to adjourn the realization of their 
dream, if they did not wish to wound the conscience 
of the public. They felt it, and resolved to travel 
for a few months before residing at Paris. The time 
that passed in their preparations for the future, and 
arrangements for this voyage, was to Madame 
Campvallon the sweetest moment of her life. She 
finally tasted to the full an intimacy so long troubled, 
of which the charm, in truth, was very great ; for 
her lover, as if to make her forget his momentary 
desertion, was prodigal in the eflusion of his tender- 
ness. He brought to private studies, as well as to 
their common schemes, an ardor, a fire, which dis- 
played itself in his face, in his eyes, and which 


378 


CAMOBS. 


seemed yet more to heighten his manly beauty. It 
often occurred to him, after quitting the Marquise 
in the evening, to work very late at home, sometimes 
until morning. One night, shortly before the day 
lixed for their departure, a private servant of the 
Count, who slept in the room above his master’s, 
heard a noise which alarmed him. 

He went down in great haste, and found M. de 
Camors stretched lifeless on the floor at the foot of 
his desk. The servant, whose name was Daniel, had 
all his master’s confidence, and he loved him with 
that singular affection which strong natures often 
inspire in their inferiors. 

He sent for Madame Campvallon, who soon came. 
M. de Camors, recovering from his fainting fit, was 
very pale, and was walking across the room when 
she entered. He seemed irritated at seeing her, and 
rebuked sharply his servant for his ill-advised zeal. 

He had only had, he said, the vertigo, to which 
he was subject. Madame Campvallon soon retired, 
liaving first supplicated him not to overwork himself 
again. When he came to her next day, she could 
not help being surprised at the dejection stamped 
on his face, and which she attributed to the attack 
he had had the night before. But when she spoke 
of their approaching departure, she was astonished, 
and even alarmed by his reply : 

“ Let us defer it a little, I beg of you,” he said. 

I do not feel in a state fit for travelling.” 

Days passed on ; he made no farther allusion to 
the voyage. He was serious, silent, and cold. His 


CAMORS. 


379 


active ardor, almost feverish, wliicli had animated 
until then his life, his speech, his eyes, was suddenlj 
quenched. One symptom which disquieted the Mar- 
quise above all, was the absolute idleness to which 
he now abandoned himself. 

He left her in the evening at an early hour. Dan- 
iel told the Marquise that the Count worked no 
longer; that he heard him pacing up and down the 
greater part of the night. At the same time his 
health failed visibly. The Marquise ventured one 
day to interrogate him. As they were both walking 
that day in the park — 

“ You are hiding something from me,” she said to 
him. “ You suffer, my friend. What is the cause?” 

“ There is nothing.” 

“ I pray you tell me !” 

“ I have nothing the matter with me,” he replied 
petulantly. 

“ Is it your son that you regret ?” 

“ I regret nothing.” After a few steps made in 
silence — “When I think,” continued he quickly, 
“ that there is one person in the world who considers 
me a coward — for I hear always that word in niy ear 
— and who treated me like a coward, and who be- 
lieved it when said, and believes it still ! If it was a 
man, it would be easy, bnt it is a woman.” 

After this sudden explosion he was silent. 

“ Very well ; what do you desire ?” said the Mar- 
quise with vexation. “Do you wish that I should 
go and tell her the truth — tell her that you were 
ready to defend her against me — that you love her, 


380 


CAMOJifi. 


and hate me ? If it be that you wish, say so. I be- 
lieve if this life continues I shall be capable of doing 
anything !” 

“ Do not you also outrage me ? Dismiss me, if that 
will give you pleasure ; but I love you only. jM v 
})ride bleeds, that is all; and I give you my word of 
honor that if you ever affront me by going to justify 
me, I shall never in my life see you or her. Embrace 
me !” and he pressed her to his heart. 

She was calm for a few hours. 

The house he occupied was about to be taken again 
by its proprietor. The middle of September ap- 
proached, and it was the time when the Marquise 
was in the habit of returning to Paris. She pro- 
]msed to M. Camors to occupy tlie chateau during 
the few days he proposed passing in the country. 
He accepted ; but whenever she spoke of returning 
to Paris — 

“ Why so soon ?” he would say ; “ are we not very 
well here ?” 

A little later she reminded him that the session of 
the Chambers was about to open. He made his 
health the pretext, that he felt weak and wished to 
send his resignation as deputy. She only induced 
him by her urgent prayer to content himself with 
asking leave of absence. 

“ But you, my beloved !” he said, “ I am condemn- 
ing you to a sad existence !” 

“ With you,” she replied, “ I am happy every* 
where and always !” 

It was not true that she was happy but it was 


CAM OHS. 


381 


true she lov«tl him and was devoted to him. There 
was no sulFering she would not have resigned hei'self 
to, no sacrifice she would not make were it for him. 

From this moment the prospect of this worldly 
sovereignty, which she thought she had touched with 
her hand, escaped her. She commenced to have a 
presentment of a melancholy future of solitude, of 
renunciation, of secret tears ; hut near him grief be- 
came a fete. One knows with what rapidity life 
passes with those who busy themselves without dis- 
traction in some profound grief — the days are long, 
but the succession of them is rapid and impercep- 
tible. It was thus that the months and then the 
seasons succeeded each other, for Camors and the 
Marquise, with a monotony which scarcely left any 
trace on their thoughts. Their daily relations were 
marked with an invariable character — on the part of 
the Count with cold courtesy, and very often silence ; 
on the part of the Marquise, by an attentive tender- 
ness and a constrained grief. Every day they rode 
out on horseback, both clad in black, sympathetic 
by their beauty and their sadness, and surrounded 
in the country by distant respect. About the com- 
mencement of the ensuing winter Madame Camp- 
vallon experienced a serious disquietude. Although 
M. de Camors never complained, it was evident his 
health was gradually failing. A dark and almost 
clay tint covered his thin cheeks, and spread nearly 
to the whites of his eyes. The Marquise showed 
some emotion on perceiving it, and persuaded him 
to consult a physician. The physician perceived 


382 


CAMORS. 


symptoms of chronic debility. He did not think il 
dangerous, but recommended a season at Vichy, a 
few hygienic precautions, and absolute repose of 
mind and body. 

When the Marquise proposed this visit to Vicliy 
to Camors, he only shrugged his shoulders without 
reply. 

A few days after, Madame de Campvallon on en- 
tering the stable one morning, saw Medjid, the favor- 
ite mare of Camors, white with foam, panting and 
exhausted. The groom explained with some awk- 
wardness the condition of the animal, by a ride the 
Count had taken that morning. The Marquise had 
recourse to Daniel, whom she made a confidant, and 
having questioned him, drew out the acknowledg- 
ment that for some time his master had been in the 
habit of going out in the evening and not returning 
until morning. Daniel was in despair with these 
nightly wanderings, which he said greatly fatigued 
his master. He ended by confessing to Madame 
Campvallon what was the point of his excursions. 

The Countess de Camors, yielding to considera- 
tions the detail of which would not be interesting, 
had continued to reside at Reuilly since her husband 
had abandoned her. Reuilly was distant twelve 
leagues from Campvallon, whicli could be made 
shorter by a cross-cut. M. de Camors did not hesi- 
tate to pass over this distance twice in the same 
night, to give himself the emotion of breathing for 
a few minutes the same air as his wife and child. 

Daniel had accompanied him two or three times. 


CAMORS. 


383 


bnt the Count went generally alone. He left hia 
horse in the wood, and approached as near as he 
could without risking discovery ; and, hiding him- 
self like a malefactor behind the shadows of the 
trees, he watched the windows, the light, the house, 
the least signs of these dear beings, from whom an 
eternal abyss had divided him. 

The Marquise half frightened, half irritated by an 
oddity which seemed to border on madness, pre- 
tended to be ignorant of it. But these two spirits 
were too accustomed to each other, day by day, to 
be able to hide anything. He knew she was in- 
formed of his weakness, and seemed no longer to care 
to make a mystery of it. 

One evening in the month of July, he left on 
horseback in the afternoon, and did not return for 
dinner. He arrived at the wood of Keuilly at the 
close of the day, as he had premeditated. He en- 
tered the garden with liis usual precaution, and 
thanks to his knowledge of the habits of the house- 
hold, he could approach,, without being noticed, the 
pavilion where the Countess’s chamber was situated, 
and which was also that of his son. This chamber, 
by a particular arrangement of the house, was ele- 
vated at the side of the court by the height of an 
entresol^ but was even with the garden. One of the 
windows was open, owing to the heat of the evening. 
Camors hid himself behind the shutters, which were 
half closed, and gazed eagerly into the chamber. 

He had not seen for two years either his wife, his 
child, or Madame de Tecle. He now saw all three 


384 


CAMOES. 


there. Madame de Tecle was working near the 
chimney. Her face was unchanged. She had the 
same youthful look, but her hair was all as white as 
snow. Madame le Camors was sitting on a lounge, 
nearly in front of the window and undressing her 
son, and at the same time talking to and caressing 
him. 

The child at a sign knelt down at his mother’s 
feet in his light night-garments, and while she held 
his joined hands in her own, he commenced in a 
loud voice his evening prayers. She whispered him 
from time to time a word that escaped him. This 
prayer, composed of a number of phrases adapted to 
a youthful mind, terminated with these woi’ds : 
“My God, be good and merciful to my mother, my 
grandmother, to myself — and above all, my God, 
to my unfortunate father.” He pronounced these 
words with a childish haste, but under a serious 
look from his mother, he repeated them immediately, 
with some emotion, as a child who repeats the in- 
flexion of a voice which has been tauglit him. 

Camors turned suddenly and noiselessly retired, 
leaving the garden by the nearest gate. A fixed 
idea tortured him. He wished to see his son — to 
speak to him — to embrace him, and to press him to 
his heart. After that, he cared for little. 

He remembered they had formerly the habit of 
taking the child every morning to give him a cup of 
milk. He hoped they had continued this custom. 
Morning arrived, and soon came the hour for which 
he waited. He hid himself in tlie walk which led to 




I 




ll 




t 











\ 



♦ 




( 




s 


4 > 




% 


I 




I 


j 









I 


t 

A 


( 


I 


% 

« 




4 


% . 



• \ • 











• I 


t 



t 


/ 


'i 


4 





*Vr 




« 


« 


*1 





i 


r 




% 





,i»^, 


* 






* 


I 


\ 






t 




I 



-4 4 


I 




4 


% 



f 


/ 






I 

. I 

« 

«» 


t 

«l 





s 




r 







< 












4 


4 



* 


# 




* , 


» 

t 


** ^ /I 

I ■ *•• . ^ - 


\ f 


• « 


. - V 

«^: 

/ .:->f 


'i-' » 


VI 


>f 

r 


r .A 




r 


I 





t 




( 


-J 


■%* 


t 


CAMORS. 


^St 

the farm. He heard the noise of feet, of laughter, 
and of joyous cries, and his son all at once appeared 
running in advance. He was an elegant little boy 
of five or six years, of a graceful and proud mien. 
On perceiving M. de Camors in the middle of the 
walk he stopped, he hesitated at this unknown or 
half-forgotten face, but the tender and half-suppli- 
cating smile of Camors reassured him. 

“ Monsieur !’’ he said doubtfully. 

Camors opened his arms and bowed down as if to 
kneel before him. 

“Come and embrace me, I beg of you,” mur- 
mured he. 

The child had already advanced smiling, when 
the woman who was following him, who was his old 
nurse, suddenly appeared. She made a gesture of 
fright : 

“ Your father !” she said in a stifled voice. 

At these words the child uttered a cry of terror, 
rushed back to the nurse, pressed against her, and 
regarded his father with frightened eyes. 

The nurse took him by the arm, and carried him 
off in great haste. 

M. de Camors did not weep. A frightful con- 
traction distorted the corners of his mouth, and ex- 
aggerated the thinness of his cheeks. He had two or 
three shudderings like those in a fever fit. He slow- 
ly passed his hand over his forehead, sighed pro* 
foundly, and departed. 

Madame de Campvallon knew nothing of this sad 
scene, but she saw its consequences ; and she herself 


886 


CAM0R8. 


felt them bitterly. The character of M. de Camors, 
already so changed, became after this unrecogniza- 
ble. He had no longer for her the cold politeness 
he had manifested for her up to that period. He ex- 
hibited a strange antipathy toward her. He fled 
from her. She perceived he avoided even touching 
her hand. They saw each other rarely now. Tlie 
health of Camors did not admit of his taking his 
regular meals. These two desolate existences of- 
fered then, in the midst of this almost royal state 
which surrounded them, a spectacle of pity. 

In this magnificent park — across these beautiful 
gardens, with great vases of marble — under long 
arcades of verdure peopled with more statues — you 
would see both of them separately straying, like two 
sad shadows, meeting sometimes but never speaking. 

One day, near the end of September, Camors did 
not descend from his apartment. Daniel told the 
Marquise he had given orders to let no one enter. 

“Not even me?” she said. He bent his head 
mournfully. She insisted. 

“ Madame, I will lose my place !” 

The Count persisted in this mania of absolute se- 
clusion. She was compelled from this moment to 
content herself with the news she obtained from his 
servant. M. de Camors was not bedridden. He 
passed his time in a sad reverie, lying on his divan. 
He got up at intervals, wrote a few lines, then laid 
down again. His weakness appeared great, though 
he did not complain of any suflering. 

After two or three weeks, the Marquise read in the 


CAMORS. 


887 


features of Daniel a more marked disquietude than 
usual. He supplicated her to call in the country 
doctor who had once before seen him. It was so de- 
cided. The unfortunate woman, when the physician 
was shown into the Count’s apartment, leant against 
the door listening in agony. She thought she heard 
the voice of Camors loudly raised, then the noise 
ceased. 

The doctor, when departing, simply said to her: 
“ Madame, his sad case appears to me serious — but 
not hopeless. I did not wish to press him to-day, but 
he allows me to return to-morrow.” 

In the night which followed, at nearly two o’clock, 
Madame Campvallon heard some one calling her, and 
recognized the voice of Daniel. She rose immedi- 
ately, threw a mantle around her, and admitted him. 

“ Madame,” he said, “ M. le Comte asks for you,” 
and burst into tears. 

“ Mon Dieu ! what is the matter ?” 

“ Come, Madame — you must be in haste !” 

She accompanied him immediately. From the 
moment she put her foot in the chamber, she could 
not deceive herself-— Death was there. Crushed by 
sorrow, this existence, so full, so proud, so powerful, 
was about to terminate. The head of Camors, turned 
on the pillow, seemed already to have assumed a 
death-like immobility. His beautiful features, sharp- 
ened by suffering, took the rigid outline of sculp- 
ture ; his eye alone lived yet and looked at her. 

She approached him hastily and wished to seize 
the hand resting on the sheet. 


d88 


CAMORS. 


He withdrew it. She gave a despairing groan. 
He continued to look fixedly at lier. Slie thought 
he was trying to speak, hut could not ; but his eyes 
spoke. They addressed to her some request, at the 
same time with an imperious though supplicating 
expression, which she doubtless understood ; for she 
said aloud, with an accent full of sadness and tender- 
ness — 

“ I promise it to you.” 

He appeared to make a painful effort, and his look 
indicated a large sealed letter lying on the bed. She 
took it, and read on the envelope — “ To my son.” 

“ I promise you,” she said, again falling on her 
knees, and inundating the sheet with her tears. 

He extended his hand toward her. “Thanks!” 
was all he said. Her tears redoubled. She set her 
lips on this hand already cold. When she raised her 
head, she saw at the same instant the eyes of Camors 
slightly moist, rolling wildly — then extinguished ! 
She uttered a cry, thre^ herself on the bed, and 
kissed madly those eyes still open — yet void of light 
forever ! 

Thus ended Camors, who was a great sinnei\ but 
was nevertheless — a man I 


THE END. 


f 


T 


4 




h 



» ' 


J 


> 




« 


V 




€ 



. 





\ 


I 


/ 


V 


p 


\ 


4 


i 


j 

. .\ ^ 


The Librar y of Choi ce Fiction. 

Unparallefed Success, due to the Igxcellence of the Make-Up as 

well as to the Talent and Reputation of the Authors. 


MADAME BO VARY ; or, Loved to the Last. 

By Gustave Flaubert. 414 pages, with a preface by Max Maury 
and twelve full-page half-tone illustrations from original Etchings. 
The first and only American Edition of this admirable work. With 
a cover in four colors designed by Auguste Leroy. 

HER SISTER’S RIVAL. 

By Alfred Delpit, author of “Such is Life.” 321 pages with eight 
full-page half-tone illustrations from drawings made for us in Paris 
under the author’s own supervision. Beautiful cover in colors 
sketched by a well-known artist. 

THE WOMAN OF FIRE. 

By Auguste Belot, author of “Mademoiselle Giraud, my wife.” 
376 pages, with twelve full-page illustrations from the Parisian 
plates themselves, imported into this country at great expense. Ex- 
quisite cover in five colors by our own designer. 

BEL-AMI. 

By Guy de Maupassant. The master-piece of the famous author 
of “Notre Coeur” and “Pierre et Jean,” with a frontispiece in half-tone 
hy Herbert Butler, and bound in a handsome cover in two colors. 

A LIFE’S DECEIT. ((Terminie Lacerteux.) 

By Edmond and Jules de Goncourt. Containing 10 photo-grav 
ures from original French Etchings. One of the leading works of the 
great realistic writers. Unique cover in colors by A. Leroy. 

QUEEN OF THE WOODS. 

By Andr^ Theuriet, 235 pages. Illustrated with thirty-two beau- 
tiful half-tone engravings, each one a work of art. “ The story is one 
of love, remarkable for its tenderness and purity.” The make-up of 
this volume is in every ' way unique and worth three times the money. 

MAUPRAT; or, The Bandit Noblemen. 

By George Sand. Beautifully illustrated and with a specially 
designed cover. A poignant story of love and adventures in the 
heart of a French forest. The incidents are as dramatic as the per- 
sonages are powerfully drawn. 

THE YOUNGEST BROTHER ; a Socialistic Romance. 

From the German of Ernst Wichert, by “ Kannida.” Specially 
illustrated by Henry Mayer. A book which has caused a deep sensa- 
tion all over Europe and America. 

THE CARTARET AFFAIR. 

By St. George Rathborne, author of “Dr. ^ack,” with sixteen 
full page engravings b 3 '^ Henrj^ Mayer. “Endorsed by the press, 
welcomed by the reading public.” 


Readers of good literature are advised to procure Laird Sc Lee’s 
Publications, as they are printed in large type on excellent paper, pro- 
fusely illustrated, and bound in solid and attractive covers. 

SOLD BY ALL NEWSDEALERS AND UPON ALL TRAINS, OR SUPPLIED 

BY THE PUBLISHERS. 

LAIRD <& LEE, Ohicago. 


AD.D. 


1 





i 













< . . ^ 0 « ^ ^ A 


X'® ^ ^ 


OQT 




<#• 


O. ^^*0 c- V *" rV, % 

'n:<. .V. - 0 h^r^o 


'■'^n C'P 
<P <\' 




.y. y ^ 

o 0 ^ 




\ . V <^ <* /“ 


'■ '= 

p'* *^,*.> 0 ’ '•*^..' ..'»■ 

'> 


: 


k > rV.l C ^ a \ \ .\i 

' ’ "<' ’.o^ ■■'g, ' \N\''’' ' 

* •P. 




P * 

^ >; " </' <\» '/ 7 l IS >;->» . 

4,^^ < 'I ^ -P .0^ . P 

: , 


« 

p -i' 
S;® ' 

: vO o 



» ts 29 • -I 

^ 0 tf K '*' . '\ 

.Q*' , ' ' 8 ^ 'U . ,V 

I C' v' “P ' 

■‘bo’* • -■ '' 

*®ip= ^°°'<' 


O 


' o'j-'^ ° \>^v'"''„ o~ »'•», 'c. 

-•^ Ppisf,p P aV * 





<p " i? 

■ik * 1 

•P ' 4 

<\ 

o 

^ c P 


^ _r*^ 

\V w 

^ C^nV 


o .Tr>is 

wL''Tk 


*0 0 ^ 


s 1 ^ 

^ N~ -rf- y 

= 2 ^ * . 1 ' “ ' P' . , P 

. P ■ v> s'” 

° .p » 

* -V ? 



.V ^ O 

- *X' • • 'y '•:;;•>/“ • ' > 

♦ - <6 


. A *' w 



^ V 

P/- ** # 1 


« ^ 




^°. 4 . 




% 




